


Back from the Raging Blue

by saxamophone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Break Up, Enemies to Friends, Explicit Language, Friends to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-Break Up, Post-Hogwarts, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Sexual Content, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29924091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saxamophone/pseuds/saxamophone
Summary: When they were eleven, Draco and Harry hated each other.When they were seventeen, they saved each other.When they were twenty-five, they fell in love.And then, when they were twenty-eight, Harry left.A story about love, forgiveness, and the choices we make.Title and fic inspired by the song “Fire in Bone” by The Killers.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s), Harry Potter/Original Female Character(s), Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 46
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea rattling around in my head for a bit, so I hope you enjoy it. It's mostly characters talking about what happened to them during canon, trying to make sense of it - and there is a happy ending, I promise. 
> 
> Thanks very much to my beta, Zoey, who is an amazing HP fandom historian! Go follow her on TikTok at @zoey.gabriella.
> 
> I welcome comments and feedback, and thank you so much for reading it. Enjoy! 
> 
> NOTE: I do not support JK Rowling or her transphobic views. I support the entirety of the HP fandom, and will continue to work to combat the harm her words have caused.

_They say no one's gonna save you  
You've gotta make it on your own  
But I called from the dark  
And you picked up the phone  
On my back in the raging blue  
I looked up, and you cut right through_

_And when I came back empty-handed  
You met me in the road  
And you fell on my neck  
And you took me back home  
After all that I took from you  
After all that I put you through  
Here I am _  
\- "Fire in Bone" by The Killers__

One year after

Draco stared at the ceiling. Tried to steady his breath. Inhale for four, hold, exhale for four. Counted, rubbed his hand over the scars on his chest. He catalogued the scuffs and marks on the ceiling. The dark line from a _reparo_ on the headboard they’d enthusiastically broken. The spell had gone wild, scarring the moulding. A faded brown starburst when Draco had overdone a cleaning charm on the sheets. A pale line from a wand grabbed during a nightmare, aimed upward at the last minute. Draco had caught him, held him close. A history of them. Marks made in love, now faded to almost nothing.  


He looked over at the clock on the nightstand—stupid Muggle thing—to check the time. 5:56 AM. Same as every morning. Draco splayed his hand over the cool pillow next to his, the one that stayed cool all the time now, save for the times Draco woke up, clutching it. Stroked his hand over the smooth cotton. He closed his eyes, and he could almost feel him, messy black hair brushing his cheek, a brown hand in his, a flash of green behind round glasses, and then...nothing. Nothing there. Just ghosts. Draco opened his eyes again. Stared at the ceiling.  


He got up, went to the bathroom, took a slash, brushed his teeth with a stupid Muggle toothbrush, two full minutes, for what. Got his running kit on. He needed to run every day, no matter the weather. Forty minutes, four miles, no exceptions. It helped clear his head, get rid of the ghosts. As much he ever really could.  


Back at the house, trainers left in the foyer. To the kitchen for coffee—tea was for the afternoon, coffee was for the morning—and toast, buttered with jam. His seat at the table, warm wood with light polish, pockmarks and stains. Each mark, another story. Sometimes he’d go through each one here too, a history of them. Most days he didn’t anymore.  


He ran a hand over the table and looked up. The delivery owl was tapping at the french door. He slipped a few knuts into the owl’s pouch and gave her a treat ( _be sure to get the mouse-flavored ones, Draco, they like those best_ ). Scanned the day’s paper. He was looking, as always, for a sign. Anything. An offhand sentence in a political story. A letter to the editor. An ad in the back. 

Sometimes he thought he saw one, a turn of phrase in a particular Quidditch match write-up ( _the seeker isn’t worth his weight in salt_ ) or a new sighting, somewhere on the continent. Black hair. A scar. It never amounted to anything. It was only ghosts.  


After breakfast, he got dressed as always, in a three-piece suit. Today it was light gray wool, crisp white shirt. Draco never wore a tie, but he did fancy socks. Today’s were orange with golden snitches that fluttered. They had been a Christmas present.  


He left the house. Their house. He went to work at Asclepius Apothecary, his now. He brewed potions. He fulfilled orders. He spoke with clients. He ate lunch. He could never remember what he ate. He closed up. He went home. Their home. He stared at the fire. He drank firewhiskey. He ate dinner. He could never remember what he had. He thought about black hair, green eyes, brown hands on pale skin. He thought about the last time he saw him.

The day of

“What do you want to do for dinner tonight?”  
  
“Mmmm?” He was distracted, reading a roll of parchment that Draco hadn’t seen before.  
  
"Do you want to do take-away? Or we could go out, I suppose?”  
  
“Whatever you want,” he said absently, still going over the parchment.  
  
Draco poured two glasses of firewhiskey and brought one over to him, waved it in front of his face.  
  
“Earth to Potter. Sickle for your thoughts?”  
  
Harry looked up, startled. “Oh. Hi.” He smiled up at Draco. His eyes crinkled and lit up. Like that smile was reserved just for Draco. It made his heart skip a beat every time, even after three years together.  
  
“Hello.” Draco smiled back and handed him his firewhiskey. “Did you hear anything I said, dear?,” he asked as he sat down in the armchair across from Harry’s.  
  
Harry took a sip of his drink as he rolled up the parchment and shook his head. “Sorry, love, I didn’t. What were you saying?”  
  
“I wanted to know what you wanted to do for dinner.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“We could get take-away? Or we could go out?”  
  
Harry perked up, seemed to come back to himself a bit. “I’ll go pick up dinner.”  
  
Draco smiled. “You don’t have to. We could get it delivered.”  
  
“No, no, it’s OK, I could do with the walk. Curry OK? Chicken vindaloo?” Harry was already getting up, setting his glass down on the coffee table, and shoving the scroll in his pocket. He walked to the door, grabbed his old leather jacket, the one that had been his godfather’s.  
  
“Extra naan?,” Draco called as Harry opened the door.  
  
Harry paused, threw a smile back at Draco. “Always extra naan.”  
  
And then he was gone.

*****

When Harry hadn’t come back by midnight, he firecalled Ron and Hermione. Hermione answered, hair pulled back, in sweats and ready for bed. Draco was frantic. He knew something was wrong. Harry wouldn’t just leave. Hermione called for Ron, waved Draco through. Ron caught him when he stumbled into their living room. It was awful. Ron and Hermione were horror-struck but calmly competent.  
  
“Tell me again what happened, Draco. Did he say anything else?” Hermione was intent.  
  
“No, Hermione. Nothing else.” Draco wiped his eyes with a tea towel she handed him.  
  
Ron stood by, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Studied Draco. Turned to Hermione. “I reckon it was the parchment, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” she sighed.  
  
They had sprung into action, easily, as if it was an old cloak they knew how to wear. They’d gotten the DMLE involved, MACUSA. Contingents from Asia and Australia, Africa's confederations, and South American governments. Every agency had searched the underground networks, the leftover Death Eater factions. Muggle terrorist networks, the Dark Web, even. There was no trace of him.  
  
No one believed Harry was dead. If someone killed him, the prevailing wisdom was that the murderer would at least leave a body, a declaration that Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, was dead. Even if they weren’t as stunningly dramatic as Voldemort had been about the whole thing, marking Harry as a baby, stealing his blood through a convoluted, year-long plot. They still would have wanted people to know. Know that their Saviour was gone.  
  
After six months of searching, the consensus was that Harry had left. Didn’t want to be found. Ron kept mulling it over like it was a problem he could solve, but, to Draco’s surprise, Hermione had been...resigned. Almost as if she knew something like this was going to happen. She stopped researching. She let it go. She let him go.  
  
Hermione’s reaction convinced Draco.  
  
Harry had left and taken half of Draco with him.  
  
Draco talked to Hermione about him, once, about a month after the searches had stopped. It became clear that, in Harry’s absence, the friendship that had developed between Draco and Ron and Hermione had its limits. He had taken part of Draco with him, but he’d also taken parts of his two best friends. Draco knew there were depths to Harry’s relationship with Ron and Hermione that were unknowable to him. He went to her.  
  
“I don’t know, Draco,” she said, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, stared at the scarred butcher block table in her kitchen. Ron was abroad, looking at premises in Germany for a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes expansion. Their daughter, Rose, was in bed. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.  
  
“Hermione. Please.” Draco’s eyes filled, and his throat closed. He put his hand over hers, willing her to look at him. He couldn’t say anything else without breaking down. She finally met his gaze. Her eyes were wet, and she took a deep breath. She lifted her mug to take a sip of tea, pulling her hands from his.  
  
“I’m just. I’m not surprised. I don’t know what else to tell you.” She set the mug down again. Draco saw that her hands were shaking.  
  
He inhaled for four, held, exhaled for four. He took off his glasses and pressed his palms to his eyes. He didn’t want to ask. He had to ask.  
  
“Do you.” He hesitated. Inhaled, held, exhaled. “Do you think it was me? Did he leave because of me?” He looked at Hermione again, knowing that she could see his agony.  
  
This time, she met his eyes. “Yes.”  
  
Draco wasn’t surprised.

Ten years before

Draco stood up from the chair in the courtroom, breathing heavy and shaking. It was finally over. He had been sentenced to five years probation, given a small stipend from the depleted Malfoy vaults to find a flat, and directed to find employment and to “make himself a useful member of both Wizarding and Muggle society.” Whatever that meant.  
  
He had scheduled check-ins with a parole officer from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement every two weeks. All in all, Draco was grateful. He could have done much worse. And would have.  
  
Had it not been for Potter’s testimony.  
  
Draco and his attorney waited for the courtroom to clear before making their way to the exit. He was at the door when he felt a hand on his arm. Draco turned and found himself looking directly into specky green eyes.  
  
“A word, Malfoy,” Potter said.  
  
Draco looked at his attorney, who shrugged. “You’re free and no longer my problem.” He strode off.  
  
“Pleasant bloke, eh,” Potter said darkly, eyes narrowed as he followed the attorney’s retreating form.  
  
“Can’t blame him, I suppose,” Draco shrugged. “What do you want?,” Draco eyed Harry warily.  
  
“Yeah. I, uh. I wanted to give you this.” Harry pulled Draco’s wand out of the inside of his suit coat. Potter wore Muggle suits that hung off his skinny frame.  
  
Draco looked at his wand, held toward him in Potter’s outstretched hand. He looked back up at Potter.  
  
“My wand?,” he asked.  
  
“Yeah. I thought I should return it. It came in handy. Killed Voldemort.” He gave a small smile.  
  
Draco snorted. “Well, there’s one thing it did right. Why are you giving it back?”  
  
“I got my old wand back. Had another one for a bit there, too. Seems you had it as well. But I don’t think that wand would have been good for either of us, in the end.” Harry twirled Draco’s wand in his hand.  
  
Draco started to ask Potter what he was on about but decided it was probably better not to know. He reached out, and Potter passed him his old hawthorn wand. It was warm from Potter’s hand and started to hum in Draco’s. He remembered how it felt, holding it for the first time in Ollivander’s when he was eleven. How it felt like his magic finally had a place to go, an outlet. He had been blindingly happy. Until he had seen the look on Lucius’s face when he realized his son’s wand had a unicorn hair core. Most Malfoy wands were dragon heartstring, powerful, and amenable to the dark arts. Unicorn hair cores were stable and faithful. Lucius had been red-faced with rage and had stormed out of Ollivander’s, leaving a trembling Draco alone. It, like most memories of his father, was filled with both joy and fear.  
  
“Thank you,” Draco said, trying to convey how grateful he was without saying more. He was afraid he might cry.  
  
“You know it’s up to you now, right Malfoy?” Harry eyed Draco, and Draco tilted his head, questioning. “You don’t have to be the same person. Someone once told me that we’ve all got light and dark in us, but what matters is what we choose. Our choices make us who we are.”  
  
Draco nodded. Had nothing to say. Harry was still studying him.  
  
“The same person also told me that the world isn’t divided into good people and Death Eaters. It’s not so black and white.”  
  
And with that, Harry left.


	2. Chapter 2

The day of

Harry stared at the ceiling in the bedroom, arms behind his head, eyes tracing the marks that they’d left; an enthusiastic _reparo_ , a cleaning charm, a mistake. Marks made in love. Harry liked Draco in bed, slightly mussed and undone, snoring lightly in his sleep. Or shaking with pleasure, wrapped in his arms, covering Harry’s lips with his own, breaths mingling. Harry had been so surprised by Draco, by his quiet need to make the right choice, his need to face things head-on. He had fallen in love with Draco too easily; it was almost as if he hadn’t had a choice at all.

He looked over Draco, sleeping on his stomach, face buried in the pillows, white-blond hair just visible above the covers. He wanted to kiss him awake, sink inside him, make Draco shudder with pleasure. It had been years, and Harry still wanted him, wanted to taste him, breathe him in, make Draco his. He never stopped wanting. Could never catch his breath, it seemed. Harry wondered if Draco felt the same way. Wondered if Draco ached, deep in his chest, as Harry did. 

Harry hadn’t realized he needed to touch someone so much. Draco never seemed to mind, leaned into him, traced his jaw, Harry’s eyebrows, his lips. Begged for more when Harry touched him back. Just one word from Draco, a soft _please,_ a breathless _yes,_ a whispered _love,_ and Harry stopped breathing, stopped thinking. It seemed wrong that one word should have such power.

Somewhere, underneath how much Harry loved Draco, how much he wanted him, he felt unsettled, like embers burning, a fire in his bones. He looked back at the ceiling. 

He wondered what it meant.

One year after

“Darling, you can’t keep this up,” Pansy said.

Draco looked up from his glass of wine into Pansy’s concerned brown eyes. He knew he worried her. He worried everyone. He worried himself. He knew that holding onto Harry this hard, the routines that had become rigid and unfixed, his little rituals, were unhealthy. He knew it. He didn’t know how to stop.

He sighed. “I know, Pans. I just miss him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “He left you, Draco. Left.”;

He started to open his mouth, to protest, to say that Harry could have been taken forcibly, that something could be wrong, but she stilled him with a raised hand, oxblood nails flashing.

“Stop it. I know what you’re going to say. The very best Aurors, in both Britain and abroad, looked for him for months. For _months._ Do you think that if something happened to him, they wouldn’t have found him? He left, Draco. Of his own accord. You need to let him go.”

Draco shut his mouth and slumped over. Pansy was right, and he knew it. He just didn’t know how to get out of his habits, his rituals. Part of him didn’t want to let them go. It meant letting Harry go. It meant moving on from the pain, the dull ache in his chest. It was a wound that never fully scabbed over; he kept picking at it. Moving on meant Draco had to forgive.

He didn’t know who.

He didn’t know how.

Pansy pulled Draco’s hand from his wine glass and held it in her soft, small one. “Darling. Look at me.” Her voice was softer now. Draco looked up. “I know how much you loved him. And I know that him leaving, with no word, worrying you like he did, I know that’s devastating. I know. But I also know that you can’t keep living like this. In his house. With all his things. He’s gone, and you’re still stuck here, in your old relationship but alone. You need to mourn him, to get angry, to hate him. You need to move on.”

Draco pulled his hand back. “I don’t know how,” he whispered.

“I have the name of a mind healer. In Paris, so you won’t be bothered by anyone going to the British press to gossip about you. I can have Millie arrange for a weekly portkey from her law office. What do you say, love?”

Draco drank his wine. He knew Pansy was right. He was living in limbo. Circe, even the bloody house felt like it was holding its breath half the time, and the gloom had settled in again since Harry had been gone. He’d told Draco that Grimmauld Place had brightened up, seemed to glow and feel lighter once Draco had moved in. Almost as if it was happy. Harry had joked that the “Noble and Most Ancient House of Black” was finally glad to have one of its own living in it again. Draco liked that idea; it made it seem like they were family. The house, Teddy, Andromeda. Draco had liked it all. Liked being part of Harry’s found family. _We can create our family, Draco. It’s more than blood._

“Draco,” the stern tone was edging back into Pansy’s voice. “I know you thought that Harry loving you was some sort of path to redemption. That if Harry could forgive you, it meant that you wouldn’t have to do it yourself. You need to forgive yourself. For you. He couldn’t save you. And he can’t destroy you. You are better than this, Draco. You are a fucking dragon. Get your shit together.”

It was almost a relief, in a way, to hear her get mad at him, to stop tip-toeing around him finally, all concerned glances and low murmurs. He looked at her again. Nodded. A mind healer. Moving on. Forgiving himself. Merlin, how? Harry’s words, outside the courtroom, had been his guiding principle for a decade. Your choices define you. It’s not so black and white. He had made better choices. But had he ever forgiven himself for the bad ones? Was Pansy right? Had he thought his best choice, Harry, absolved him from forgiving himself?

Draco thought about the ring that was upstairs, hidden at the back of his sock drawer. Thought about the words he’d had engraved on it.

What a fool he’d been.

Nine years before

Draco was unmoored. His mother had fled to France, which was best for everyone, and Lucius was serving a ten-year sentence in Azkaban, which was also best for everyone. Draco suspected Lucius wouldn’t make it out of there alive, not this time, but he couldn’t muster caring one way or another, really. He knew he should have an emotion about his parents, but it took everything he had just to put one foot in front of the other. It was Harry’s words that he heard in his head, like a drumbeat. Your choices define you. It’s not so black and white.

He’d done either the wrong thing or, even worse, nothing at all for most of his life. Draco had ignored his intuition for years, tried to survive. Tried to keep his parents alive. Never thought about right or wrong. He had learned how to ignore the most intrinsic part of himself. He didn’t know how to trust himself. That snake-faced arsehole and his aunt had made sure of that.

So he started small. He decided what to eat, every meal, every day. He’d never had to think about it before. House elves had provided meals at both the Manor and Hogwarts. He learned how to shop at Tesco’s, make simple meals.

He tried new things. Went to Pizza Express and Nando’s. He found out that he didn’t like white pizza. He did like chicken thighs with hot sauce and peri-peri fries. He learned about football and went to the movies. He thought Arsenal was a bit shit, but he liked The Matrix. He bought clothes from H&M. He used his small trust and got a Muggle apartment in Shadwell, just outside Diagon Alley.

Six months after his trial ended, he got an owl. A potioneer, Angelos Iraklidis, asked if Draco wanted to apprentice with him. Draco was suspicious. Who would possibly want to employ him? His shop, Asclepius Apothecary, was at the far end of Diagon Alley. It wasn’t terribly promising, but Draco needed a job.

So he went.

“My dear Mr. Malfoy, welcome, welcome, come in,” the short, slightly rotund, and balding man ushered him in. He had a thick Greek accent, and the shop smelled like cloves and honey, and the air was warm and dry. _It’s a happy place,_ Draco thought. He wondered if that was his intuition.

“Hello, Mr. Iraklidis,” Draco said as he shook the potioneer’s hand.

The shop was comfortable, all golden light and gleaming wood, potions glowing in amber and yellow bottles in glass cabinets, drying plants and flowers hung from the ceiling. It was cozy and cluttered and not at all like Snape’s office at Hogwarts, green and grey with specimens suspended in jars.

“Come in, my dear boy, let’s go in the back and have a nice chat. Tea?,” he asked as he bustled through a doorway behind the counter.

“Yes, thank you,” Draco replied as he followed Mr. Iraklidis to the back room. It had a small sitting area in front of a cheerful fireplace on one side and a work area on the other. There was a long table covered in bubbling cauldrons—gold, silver, pewter—and large glass distilling kits, dripping and puffing. Mr. Iraklidis motioned for Draco to sit in one of the wingback chairs by the fire. He poured green tea from a silver teapot into a small glass cup. Draco accepted the glass as he sat and took a sip. It was mint.

“This is delicious, thank you.” His manners were ingrained.

“Ah, yes, traditional mint tea from Morocco. I lived there for a bit and developed a habit. It’s also hospitable to offer it to your guest and, as you are my guest, it is only right. Cheers.” Mr. Iraklidis lifted his glass and took a sip. He seemed content to sit and drink tea, disinclined to further the conversation.

Draco felt that he might as well be direct.

“Thank you very much for your invitation and your hospitality, Mr. Iraklidis. I don’t mean to be too forward, but, well. I was surprised to receive your owl. I have to ask, why me? I’m assuming you do know my history, my family’s history with the Death Eaters, as my trial ended only a few months ago. I’m not sure why you’d want to hire a felon and former member of a fascist blood-supremacy group.” Draco shifted, crossed his legs. Uncrossed them.

Mr. Iraklidis smiled. “Ah, yes. You see, I was once in a spot of trouble as a young man, and someone gave me a second chance. I read about your trial, and Mr. Potter’s testimony. I was reminded of my own poor choices and of the person who helped me. I thought that, perhaps, it was my time to pay it forward. I also heard that you were quite a good potions student at Hogwarts, so it seems as if it is moíra.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Fate, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I’m not sure I believe in fate, Mr. Iraklidis,” Draco said softly.

“Well, then. How about second chances? And call me Angelos.” Mr. Iraklidis had raised his glass, dark eyes sparkling.

Draco paused. “To second chances, then.” He raised his glass. “And please, call me Draco.”

So he went to work. He walked to the Leaky from his flat every morning. Ignored the looks he got as he made his way through Diagon Alley. He worked with Angelos, learned how to source high-quality ingredients. The best doxy eggs came from Israel; the most potent fanged geraniums were grown in Botswana. At Angelos’ insistence, he serviced customers in-person, tolerated their glares. At some point, the glares lessened, until they stopped. Draco had a knack for brewing complicated healing potions, ones that even Angelos had a hard time perfecting. Asclepius developed a reputation as one of the better apothecaries in Britain. Draco started a successful mail-order program. He loved working there, and he loved Angelos.

Sometimes, when he thought about it, he was proud of himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Eight years before

Draco passed Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes twice a day, every day, for over a year before he worked up the courage to go in. He took a late lunch and hoped that the store would be quiet, since all the school-aged children were still at Hogwarts. He knew that George, the surviving twin, still ran the place. But he wanted to speak to Ron. 

Draco had seen him in Diagon Alley a few times, coming and going. He was reasonably sure Ron had seen him as well. 

It was time. 

The shop was a riot of color and whimsy, orange and purple, things puffing and smoking. Different dioramas were charmed to show what each product did: a puking child, a flash of absolute dark, an enlarged tongue. Draco noticed they’d removed the immense love potion display. The Wizangamot had finally classified all love potions as Class Alpha restricted because they removed consent. 

Draco walked to the back counter and tried to calm his nerves. His parole-mandated mind healer had taught him breathing exercises for his anxiety—in for four, hold, out for four. He saw a red-haired man with a beard emerge from the back room, a stack of boxes in his arms. He put them down on the counter and looked up. Narrowed eyes, tense shoulders. Ron, then. Draco remembered that body language, coiled and ready to strike, as he had hurled insults at Weasley at school. He looked good, though. As tall as Draco but broader through the shoulders and torso with a rather luxurious beard. Draco thought it suited him very well. Hid his weak chin, too. 

Draco approached the counter, and Weasley crossed his arms. Perhaps he pushed out his biceps a bit, Draco noted. 

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?,” Ron asked, curt.

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Hello. I’m not sure if you know this, but I, ah, I work in Asclepius Apothecary down the street, and well, I had hoped to perhaps talk to you if you had a moment.” Draco paused. “And if you were agreeable to a conversation.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you around,” Ron answered gruffly. “I don’t see how we could possibly have anything to talk about, though, Malfoy, so why don’t you just tell me why you’re here. The sooner I know what you want, the sooner I can tell you to bugger off, yeah?”

Draco took a deep breath. Now or never, he supposed. Doing the right thing felt awful. 

But so did doing the wrong thing. 

“I’d like to apologize to you, Weas- ah, Ron. If I may call you Ron...” Draco hesitated, but Weasley’s eyes just narrowed further, so he plowed on. “I understand that my actions toward you in school were abhorrent, and I want to apologize for goading you, and making fun of your family, and for generally being a little prick. Until the time I went from prick to full cult initiate, when I escalated my behavior from terrible to dangerous. I’d also like to apologize for you getting hurt during my rather pathetic attempt to, ah,” he stumbled a bit. “Dumbledore. And for letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and for my part in your brother getting hurt that night.

“I’m also very sorry your other brother, Fred, died in the battle. He and George were always very entertaining at school, even if I was loath to admit it. And I always did love this shop. I also apologize for using Peruvian Darkness Powder, purchased here, the night that I let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I know that I cannot possibly hope for your forgiveness, and really, I’m not sure how much good it would do either of us. But an apology is an acknowledgment of harm, and I want to do that. Acknowledge the harm I’ve done. To you.” Draco petered out. He thought he might pass out, his heart beating so fast. Inhale, hold, exhale. 

Weasley uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on the edge of the counter, dropped his head down to stare at the floor for a moment. Draco saw his back rise and fall in a slow rhythm, as if Weasley was also doing a breathing exercise. Draco wasn’t the only one with post-war anxiety. He waited patiently. 

After a few more breaths, Ron looked up at him and exhaled fully. His eyes were bright. “Merlin bloody _wept,_ Malfoy.” He huffed out another breath. “OK, first, no, you may not call me Ron; that is way too weird. And two, you’re right—I do not forgive you. But mostly because it’s not my place, and yeah, what good would it even do. Three, and seriously fuck me, Malfoy, I cannot believe I’m going to say this to you, but,” another deep breath, “thank you for your condolences about Fred. We miss him every day. And Bill is OK, thank you. Somehow looks even more bloody fit with those scars Greyback gave him, the wanker.” He gave a tiny smile. 

“And, as you can see, I’m fully recovered from that poisoned wine or whatever the fuck it was, although the real person responsible for saving my sorry arse that day was Harry. One of about fifty times he’s done so. So. Yeah. OK. Thank you for acknowledging…harm done. I reckon you did quite a bit of that.” He let out another breath. “Didn’t seem like your heart was in it at the end, though, yeah?” Ron raised an eyebrow. 

“I don’t want to make excuses, Weasley. I did terrible things, full stop.”

“Yeah, you bloody well did, but I reckon we all were just teenagers who didn’t know our arse from a tea kettle either. Fuck. I hated you so much.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Now it seems so pointless.” He paused. “Hermione had me read the letter you sent her, you know.”

Draco nodded and swallowed. He had sent Granger an apology a few weeks ago. He wanted to apologize to Weasley in person, but he needed to write out Granger’s. She always flustered him. She wrote him back, thanking him for his honesty and straightforwardness, and politely but pointedly stating that he had some other people to address as well. She helpfully provided a list, though he hadn’t needed it. 

“Wondered where my fucking nine-inch apologia was, eh? Felt a bit left out.” Ron offered a half-smile, and Draco took it.  


“Yes, well. Seeing as how we are…not colleagues, exactly, but that we both work in the same area, I thought it would be best if I apologized to you in person.” He paused and thought, _fuck it._ “She’s also terribly intimidating.”

Ron snorted. “Don’t I bloody half well know it. OK, Malfoy, you’ve said your piece to me. Who’s next on your apology world tour, eh? Let me give you a clue: if it’s not Harry, it better fucking well be.”

 _Circe,_ since when did Weasley get so assertive? It suited him.

“Ah, yes. I would like to…well, you see, he gave me a bit of advice when he returned my wand after the trial, and I’ve been trying to take it. I’m not sure how well I’m doing, so I was planning on waiting to offer Har—Potter— my apologies until I…until I felt as though I was in a better place. After having followed his advice.” Draco shifted uncomfortably.

Weasley studied him. “I don’t know what Harry said to you, but I’m happy that, whatever it was, you took it to heart. But he deserves a…what was it? ‘Acknowledgment of harm done?’ You said you don’t want my forgiveness, and I know you told Hermione the same thing. It seems like you might want Harry’s, though, mate. Maybe you should think that bit through.”

Merlin _wept._ Weasley saw right to the heart of things, didn’t he? 

“Yes. Well. Thank you. I will. I will consider that. I’ll leave you to your business now, and I’ll be on my way. I…I hope to say hello should we pass each other on the street going forward. Since we occupy the same—”

“Yeah, yeah, Malfoy, we can say hello as we pass each other in the halls like bloody first-years. Get out of my shop, now,” he said, although there was no venom behind it.

Draco nodded and turned to leave. He was about to open the door when Weasley called after him. “Harry doesn’t have it in him to hold a grudge, Malfoy. He saved you. He spoke for you. You don’t need to prove anything to him.” Draco hesitated, hand on the doorknob. He nodded at Weasley and left.

Draco wanted to believe him. 

He couldn’t.

Four years before

The bell over the shop door chimed. Draco put a statis spell over the batch of a calming draught he was developing, took off his dragonhide gloves and apron, and removed his goggles. He slipped his waistcoat back on over his shirt, buttoning it as he made his way to the front of the shop. He looked up. Drew up short. 

Harry Potter stood in front of him. It took his brain a moment to work it out. Harry Potter was here. In Asclepius. Messy black hair, glasses, green eyes. In a grey Auror coat with red piping and brass buttons. The last time Draco had seen him was after his trial, six years ago. Potter had been skinny, drowning in too large Muggle suits. The Potter in front of him looked like, well…he looked like a man. He was broader through the shoulders, and his hair had grown out a bit. He had stubble on his chin, and he carried an air of authority that had always been there, but now seemed calmer. More settled. _Fuck._

Draco had never apologized to him. He tried a few times. Wrote letters and tore them up. Draco could make better choices when it came to almost everything, except Potter. He had no idea how to thank him, for saving him from the fire, for the trial, his mother, his wand. Harry’s curse still scarred his chest. It was impossible.

It appeared as though he’d have to try again now. 

Draco smoothed his waistcoat down and stood up straighter. Good posture had been bred into him, quite literally. He walked to the counter and gripped the edge, hoping it would stop his hands from shaking. He tried to say hello. His voice didn’t cooperate. 

“Malfoy,” Harry nodded. “Nice place you have here.” He looked around the shop, took it in. 

Draco forced his mouth to form words. “Thank you, Potter. It’s not mine. I work for Mr. Iraklidis, but he’s on a buying trip right now. Might I be of service?” He gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white. 

Potter walked over to the counter and pulled a vial out of his ridiculously attractive coat. A shiny liquid swirled inside. 

“I was wondering if you could help me with this. I’m working on a case—illegal potions ring—and our people couldn’t catalogue this one. They hit it with all the standard spells and tests, yeah? Tried to isolate the ingredients, cast revealing charms, even tested it out on a house elf or two, which I thought was bloody unethical. It seems as though they're a few house elves bound to the spooks in the Department of Mysteries, so there’s not much I can do about that. It didn’t hurt them, thank Christ, but it didn’t tell them anything else either. Figured we’ve hit a brick wall, so I’ve come to you. Do you think you can tell what it is?”

Draco tried very hard not to gape. Not only was Potter standing here, in Asclepius and looking very fit, but he was here to ask for Draco’s help on an illegal potions case. One the DMLE and the Department of Mysteries hadn’t been able to solve. Well, it didn’t sound as if the Department of Mysteries had tried to figure anything out, except lend a couple of house elves as test subjects which, Draco agreed, was entirely unethical. And cruel. He thought of Dobby, and Drizzy and Metulo, the other house elves at the Manor. He had loved them, even if it had been unbefitting for a Malfoy. Draco composed himself. 

“I’m sorry, Potter, my mentor isn’t in right now, as I’ve said. I’d be happy to have him look at this when he returns. I’m not sure if you’d be able to—”

“I don’t want Iraklidis to look at the potion, Malfoy,” Potter interrupted. “I came here to ask for your help.” 

“Mine?,” Draco was so surprised; the question just fell out of his mouth. 

“Yeah, yours, ya daft idiot,” Potter’s mouth quirked. “Everyone knows that this shop was middling at best before you started working here. Now it’s one of the premiere apothecaries in the country. Why do you think that is?” His eyes were bright behind his glasses. 

“What?” Draco blurted out. Malfoy manners crumbled before Potter, it seemed. 

“Malfoy, come on. I was handed a list of the top brewers in the country, and your name was on it. I did some digging and found out that you created an entire line of healing potions— _created,_ as in these potions previously did not exist—since you've been here. You’ve also improved the side effects of current healing potions, where other people couldn’t. I also learned that you share your work with international potioneers, for free, so they can use your recipes and adapt them based on the materials and ingredients native to their region. I want your help. Not Iraklidis’.”

Draco flexed his fingers on the counter and pushed off, ran his hands through his hair, rubbed his face under his glasses. Potter wasn’t wrong; Draco had done all of those things. But they hadn’t seemed quite so impressive while he was doing them. He just tried to help people rather than hurt them. 

He picked up the vial and headed to the back room. He looked over his shoulder and saw Potter still standing in the center of the shop, hands in his pockets, coat shoved behind his arms. 

“Come on, then,” Draco said. 

Potter followed him. 

Draco walked over to a clean spot on the worktable and exchanged his black-framed glasses for a different pair, ones with different coloured loupes attached, sticking out at all angles. He examined the swirling potion through them. It had medium viscosity but moved on its own, shimmering different colors as it undulated, red and green, gold and purple. Draco hadn’t seen anything like it and, as he held it up to the light, he began lowering the loupes in front of the glasses, in different combinations, studying it carefully.

“What are you doing?,” Potter asked, hands still shoved in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet. 

“Seeing if I can identify any of the potion ingredients or magical properties by sight, using lenses I’ve charmed to detect certain identifying factors.” Draco was still peering at the potion, moving the loupes.

“Jesus Christ, Malfoy. That’s bloody difficult charm work, yeah? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Harry’s eyebrows drew together; he still rocked on his feet. 

Draco paused his examination. He felt a lot more comfortable in his lab, amongst his things. He set the bottle down and pushed the glasses up into his hair. It was now or never. 

“Potter, I…,” Draco cleared his throat. “I want to thank you for choosing to use Asclepius as your apothecary of choice in this consulting matter. I’m sure Angel—Mr. Iraklidis—will be best pleased when I let him know that the DMLE inquired after our expertise on a particularly troublesome case.”

“Jesus, Malfoy—,” Potter tried to interject, but Draco held up a hand, and he stopped. 

“If you could just listen for a moment. Please?” Harry nodded, and Draco continued. 

“I’d also like to thank you for inquiring after my skill set and deeming it acceptable to be of service.” Potter opened his mouth to speak again but closed again with a pointed look from Draco. 

“Now, on a personal matter, I believe I’m, well. I’m years overdue on an apology for every stupid and dangerous thing I did to you and yours whilst at Hogwarts. Beginning with apologizing for the relatively tame—in comparison to what I did later—bullying and goading in our first few years. And then later for...For taking up with my father’s ideals, for taking the Mark. For allowing Death Eaters into Hogwarts, for hurting Ron, and Katie Bell, and Ron’s brother. For fighting on the wrong side. For,” he stumbled here. He always stumbled here. “For Dumbledore. For chasing you into the Room of Requirement and for…for Vince setting that awful fire. Thank you for saving us. I’m not sure I ever managed to do that, either. Say thank you.

“I know there’s nothing I can do to atone for my terrible choices and actions fully, and I know I’m not deserving of your forgiveness. I do think apologies are an acknowl—”

“Acknowledgement of harm,” Potter interrupted. “I do speak to Ron and Hermione, you know,” he said, pointedly.

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, well, anyway. I would like to apologize. And. Well. And to let you know that I heard you, when you gave me my wand back. That our choices determine who we are. I heard you. And I’ve been trying to make better choices. I just wanted to...I wanted to say all of that before we really get started here, with the potion. I needed to say it,” he finished, lamely.

He looked away from Harry, sat back on his stool, pulled his glasses back down, and continued his examination. Harry was silent, and Draco didn’t prod him.  


He swirled the potion back and forth, lifting and lowering the different loupes along the way, making notes on a piece of parchment with a fine felt tip Sharpie. How wizards still used quills and ink when Muggles had so many different and lovely kinds of writing implements, Draco would never understand. Sometimes wizards made things more difficult for no reason. He supposed it had something to do with how easy magic made almost everything. 

Potter was still silent, and Draco hazarded a glance in his direction. He had a grim expression on his face, bordering on a scowl. But as a person with a semi-permanent frown, Draco knew that Harry could just be thinking. He figured he’d find out either way, regardless. 

Draco made more notes and maneuvered the loupes, writing down different properties and ingredients, crossing out potions as he ruled them out. After about ten minutes, Potter finally cleared his throat. Draco pushed the glasses up again and looked at him. 

“I have to admit, I rather expected a letter or request for a meeting years ago, after you reached out to Ron and Hermione and apologized to them. I was in a bit of a state about it, for a while.” He took his hands out of his pockets, ran them through his hair. “Jesus, Malfoy. You always could get under my skin. I wondered why you apologized to them and not to me. Not after I bloody well testified for you at your trial and gave you your wand back, not to mention saving your sorry arse from that fire. I deserved an apology too. I wanted it. I tried to figure out why you didn’t want to acknowledge the harm done to me, but you could to my best mates,” he huffed. 

“I almost owled you a few times. Almost stormed in here, after Ron told me where you worked. But I finally calmed down. Saw reason. Listened to what Ron told me you had said to him. I figured that if you were working and, well, contributing. Maybe that was the best apology I could hope for from you. So, I appreciate the apology, Malfoy. It’s actual years too late, but I accept it. And I do forgive you, even if it’s not my place. I forgave you a long time ago. You made your choices, and you paid for them, more harshly I’d think from your batshit aunt and that crazy noseless fuck than you did from the Wizengamot, if I had to wager a guess. But, well, you seem to be on a better path. And that’s all someone can do.” Harry stuffed his hands back in his pockets and rocked on his heels.

Draco opened his mouth to thank him, but instead, he found himself saying, “You know, you wounded me terribly on the Hogwarts Express our first year. I wanted to be your friend. But you rejected me in favor of Weasley.” He smiled, a little sadly. “I suppose it was better for everyone that you did, knowing what a little bastard I was back then, and how I’d do almost anything to please my father. You were right to stay far away.” He paused, twirled his biro. “Especially after what he did to Weasley’s sister second year. I’m not sure he knew that Riddle’s diary would try to murder a little girl, but Lucius was always good at feigning ignorance.” Draco tried for a small smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

“Lucius did try to throttle me, at the end of second year. After I tricked him into giving Dobby clothes. Dobby stopped him,” Potter grinned. 

“Yes, well, Dobby always was rather meddlesome. He did sneak me sweets, though, when I was being punished. Had to knock his head against the hearth to do it, and I never asked him to, but he always brought a treat to cheer me up.” Draco smiled sadly and looked down at the potion. 

“Malfoy, I—,” Potter started, and Draco held up his hand. 

“I don’t want to hear it, Potter. Whatever self-effacing thing you’re about to say or whatever apology you’re about to give me, I don’t want to hear it. I’d wanted to be friends with you in school, but you had the right read on me from the start. I tortured you for your rejection, and your friends as well. You saw me for what I was, which was a spoilt, nasty child who held a mean grudge. You were always the better man.” Harry opened his mouth again, but Draco plowed on. 

“Now, back to this potion, Potter, what kind of nitwits do you have working for you at the DMLE? This is very much a transmutation potion, trickier to brew than polyjuice but more effective. You don’t need a bit of organic material of the person you want to disguise yourself as; you merely have to have an image of the visage you wish to mimic. Lasts longer than polyjuice too. No wonder it’s Class Alpha Major restricted.” He handed the vial back to Potter. 

“And, for the love of Circe, tell the goddamn spooks to stop using their house elves as guinea pigs for dangerous potions. They won’t be affected the same way because their magical cores are biologically different from witches and wizards, so it’s not only a wildly unethical practice, it’s also completely useless. Just how stupid is everyone who works at the Ministry?”

Harry put the potion back in his pocket and grinned. 

Draco couldn’t help but think it was just for him.


	4. Chapter 4

Three Years Before

Harry twirled his wand while Draco pored over a giant textbook. He had a vial of violent blue potion in one hand, his regular black-framed glasses perched on his nose, and the X-Ray specs pushed up on his head. He looked like a bloody mad scientist. Harry tried to breathe evenly. 

He was here on official DMLE business again. He'd been consulting with Draco a couple of times a month for almost a year. Somewhere along the way, Harry had stopped thinking of Draco as Malfoy. He was just Draco. Not that Draco knew that.

Draco muttered to himself as he ran his fingers down the book, licking his fingertips every time he turned a page. Harry's breath hitched every time Draco licked his thumb, rubbed it against his pointer and middle fingers, pulled at the corner of the page. He forced himself to look away. Felt his eyes drift back, involuntarily, to Draco’s sharp jaw, flushed cheeks, pale neck. Draco's competence, his interest in his work, his dedication to solving a problem—all of it was a huge turn-on. 

Harry wondered when, exactly, it was that he found professional competence to be sexy. 

He knew exactly when: nine months ago, when he first saw Draco pull out his insane, charmed, brilliant X-Ray specs. For potions identification. 

There was only one other person Harry knew who was that clever. And Hermione had practically fallen off her chair when he'd told her about them. How Draco could identify potions ingredients just by fiddling with the lenses, by sight alone.

When Harry had been handed that list of potions experts and seen Draco’s on it, he’d been curious. Very curious. Draco had apologized to his two best friends—without a word to Harry— and seemed to be living a useful, helpful life. 

Nothing could have kept Harry from consulting with Draco.

Nothing could have prepared him for Draco.

How Draco had accepted the potion, no questions asked. How he’d both stumbled through his apology _(fucking finally)_ and stopped Harry from harping on it, practically in the same breath. How he’d agreed with Harry; the Department of Mysteries was unethical in its treatment of house elves.

After that first visit, Harry got the spooks to stop using the house elves as potions testers. He'd told Hermione about it, and she'd gone ballistic. It had taken two weeks.  


Draco Malfoy wanted to protect house elves. Draco missed Dobby. 

Draco fascinated Harry. 

But then, he always had. 

Harry stared at Draco, bent over, his white hair mussed from having various eyewear perched in it, or from Draco running his hands through it absent-mindedly. He didn't wear it slicked back anymore, and it was a bit longer. Floppy. Harry wondered what it would feel like, running his hands through those white strands. Tried to breathe normally.

 _Fuck._

Draco looked up, took off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"I'm fairly certain that you're only here to torture me, Potter," he said with a sigh. 

Harry hid a smile. He knew Draco loved a complicated case. "No joy then?"

Draco shook his head, remembered the X-ray specs were still on it, and set them down on the counter. "Not yet. I have to do some more tests, try to reverse engineer the ingredients to see what's in it. It's nasty stuff; I can tell you that."

"How long?," Harry asked. 

"Well, Potter, seeing as I do have an actual job, and I'm not merely the DMLE's plaything, I'd say two weeks? Maybe three?,” Draco huffed, crossed his arms. 

Harry did smile now. Draco always acted like these assessments were going to take forever, like he was putting the department behind by taking two or three weeks to identify a potion they hadn't been able to for months, sometimes years. Draco had no idea how slow bureaucracy moved. Harry found it charming. 

"What are you smiling at, Potter?." Draco asked, a wary tone in his voice. "When you smile like that, you're usually about to ask me something terrible."

 _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ Harry thought. 

"Go out with me?," Harry asked.

Draco stilled. "What?"

"Come on, Malfoy, you heard me. I'll ask again anyway. Will you go out with me?" Draco squirmed, and Harry grinned even more. This was fun. Draco turned on his stool, faced Harry, silver eyes narrowed. 

"What the fuck, Potter?"

"I can't possibly be the first person who's asked you out on a date, Malfoy. Tell me you understand what a date is." Draco looked like he was about to jump out of his navy three-piece suit. Harry was enjoying this. 

"Are you fucking with me, Auror Potter?," Draco arched an eyebrow. Years ago, it would have been a sneer. Draco never sneered anymore, Harry had noticed. 

"I'm teasing you because you seem pretty flustered. But, no, I am not fucking with you. I am asking if you, Draco Malfoy, want to go out on a date with me, Harry Potter. In a distinctly unprofessional capacity, so no need to refer to me as Auror Potter. Unless it turns you on, then we can talk about it." And damn. Draco blushed from the bottom of his neck to the tops of his ears. It was adorable. 

Draco squared his shoulders. Harry knew he did this when he was gearing up to give a speech, when he needed to compose himself. He liked that he knew something about Draco, something he’d observed himself. 

"Might I inquire as to why, exactly, you'd like to go on a date? With me?" Harry was pretty sure Draco had been aiming for sounding dignified, but it came off almost shy. 

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels. "I want to take you out on a date because I like you, you great bloody twit, and I want to get to know you better outside of your place of work. And I want to talk to you about something other than work, probably over dinner. And you're fit, and I wouldn't mind seeing what's under all your three-piece suits, if I'm honest. I can wait on that, though. Dinner and a drink first, yeah? Maybe a good night kiss if you're lucky." Harry waggled his eyebrows suggestively. He hoped. 

"That is a spectacularly bad idea," Draco said.

That put Harry on his back foot. "Why?," he asked. 

"Potter. You are you. I am me. How would this possibly go over? We'd be found out in about a second, the way the press is, and I can just see it now: The Saviour and the Death Eater: What has Draco Malfoy Done to Harry Potter?" Draco snorted. "We'd never have a moment's peace."

"C’mon, Malfoy, I'm not asking you to marry me. And you live in Shadwell, so I know you know about Muggle bars and restaurants. We'd go to one of those, not because I'd be hiding that we were out together, but because who wants the press hounding them on a first date? I wouldn't take anyone to a restaurant in the Wizarding district with me, not until we were actually in a relationship." Harry breathed. He hoped. 

Draco pursed his lips, picked up one of the fifty biros on his table, twirled it in his fingers. They had the same habit when they were thinking; Harry had noticed that, too. Draco twirled his biros; Harry twirled his wand. 

"Hey, Malfoy," Harry said, softening his voice a bit. "It's OK if you're not interested. I like being around you, working with you. Well, watching you work. And I wondered if maybe I'd like being around you, I don't know. All the time." He shrugged.

Draco looked up. "Not interested? Me? Not interested in you? You have lost your marbles, haven't you, Potter?"

"Well, how would I know if you're interested in me? You didn't ask me out, and, as far as I can tell, you haven't said yes yet. I have no idea if you're interested." Harry knew he sounded petulant, but he couldn't help it. He was used to Draco being contrary. But if Draco said no, it was going to hurt. More than he’d thought.

Draco huffed and stood up. "Merlin _wept,_ Potter. Yes, I am interested. In you. OK? I like working with you, and I like being around you, and, for fuck's sake, I would also very much like to see what's under that unfairly attractive coat. What I do not understand, what I cannot even begin to fathom, is why—how—could you possibly be interested in me?" Draco had moved closer to Harry during his mini tirade; he was crowding him now. Harry breathed. He was so close; he could smell Draco. Lemon and thyme, clove and mint. 

"Draco," Harry said, his voice low. Draco's eyes widened. Harry had never called him Draco out loud before. He liked it. "I can't help it. I want to know more about you. You're interesting. You always did get under my skin," he said, a smile playing at his lips. 

Harry reached out, touched Draco's chest lightly, felt his chest rise through his starched shirt and smooth waistcoat. Draco didn't move his hand, didn't step away. Harry moved closer, pressed his palm flat. 

Draco put his hand over Harry's, lifted it, and kissed his knuckles. Harry’s breath caught. Draco made eye contact as he kissed each of Harry's fingers, touched his lips to the dips in between, turned his hand over, kissed his palm. Harry could hardly breathe when Draco lifted his hand to his face, pressed Harry's palm to his cheek. 

"You are a bloody idiot, Harry," Draco said softly, and Harry's heart jumped at hearing him say his name. "Of course, I'll go out with you." 

Draco smiled, kissed his fingers one more time, dropped his hand, and walked back to his desk. 

Harry floated back to the office. 

Three years before

Draco glanced over at Harry, drank in his skin that glowed in the sunset, his messy black hair blowing in the wind, his full lips. They were walking hand-in-hand down the Brighton pier. Draco mentioned how he'd never been, that his parents had thought it low class, and Harry had insisted they go there, today, right now, for their date. Harry had apparated them, just like that. Like it was nothing to be spontaneous, to do something for someone else. He envied Harry for it.

It was late afternoon, still early in the season, a little bit too cold for many people to be out. Harry had insisted they get fish and chips, since Draco had never had them, either. Harry drowned his in malt vinegar and urged Draco to do the same. Draco was horrified, but Harry persisted and, well. Harry was right. Malt vinegar was a revelation. Draco’s mouth was numb from the salt and vinegar; his cheeks were numb from the ocean wind. But Draco was warm, holding hands with Harry. 

Draco liked working with Harry. The potions Harry brought him were always tricky, sometimes dangerous. He liked isolating the ingredients, defining the potion's magical properties, working backward to see what had stumped the (rather ineffective, in Draco's opinion) potions masters at the DMLE. He'd felt proud that Harry had chosen him, had made him an official consultant. 

Draco had initially been wary when Harry kept appearing, hanging around while he worked, pestering him with questions. But once Draco started to relax around him, he found he looked forward to Harry’s visits. 

Harry was…he was Harry. He was curious and annoying and poked fun at Draco in a way that made his stomach flutter. He moved all the time, twirled his wand, bounced on the balls of his feet. He was intelligent and observant. 

He was everything Draco had thought he was. 

He was so much more. 

He'd been genuinely shocked when Harry asked him out. Draco never thought that Harry might like him too. 

"Sickle for your thoughts," Harry tugged on Draco's hand and smiled at him.

"Just lamenting the fact that I've gone my whole life without drenching my chips in vinegar. All of those wasted chips. A tragedy," Draco smiled back.

"Well, next time, maybe don't fight me so much on the finer points of street food, yeah?" Harry's eyes were sparkling behind his glasses, and he tugged Draco closer.  


"Yes, sir, Auror Potter," Draco teased.

"Don't start something you're not ready to finish, Malfoy," Harry nearly growled, and he planted a quick kiss on Draco's neck, behind his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. _Merlin._

Draco stopped walking and pulled Harry to face him. 

"Harry, I—," he started. 

"I like it when you call me Harry. _Draco,_ " Harry interrupted. His eyes were so green, like a summer field. Draco could get lost in them. 

"Yes, well, I rather like it when you call me Draco, _Harry,"_ Draco pulled playfully on his hand. "I just. Thank you. Thank you for bringing me here, just because I said I'd never been."

"You keep calling me Auror Potter, and I'll bring you anywhere you want." Harry raised an eyebrow. Merlin, he was a flirt. 

Two could play at that game.

"Only if you're lucky," Draco winked.

"Did you just bloody wink at me? Did Draco Malfoy just _wink_ at me? Merlin, Godric, and Salazar too. I never thought I'd live to see it. Never thought I'd live to see much, but certainly not this," Harry said, mock-serious. 

"Yes, another thing we have in common. We both seemed to have outlived our life expectancies," Draco answered drily. 

Harry paused for a second and then burst out laughing. 

"Yes, just two former enemies, standing here in front of each other and somehow, against everyone's best guesses, still alive. And at the beach. On a date. Who would have thought?" Harry was still smiling.

Draco snorted. "Fourteen-year-old Draco certainly would have hoped."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Did you…did you fancy me while we were at Hogwarts?"

"Harry, I know you’re quite observant, you are an Auror for Merlin's sake, and you did manage to defeat a dark lord at seventeen. Please, please tell me you are not surprised by finding out that yes, I fancied you. Quite a bit." Draco blushed.

"But you hated me when we were in school. You especially hated me when we were fourteen; you made all those 'Potter Stinks' badges when I was in the Triwizard tournament. Thanks again for that, by the way. Not like a bloody madman was pulling the strings on that whole fiasco for an entire year,” Harry said, pulling on Draco’s hand. 

"Yes, because one spends hours and hours charming badges with someone's face on them because they hate them. Not because they have a crush on them and only know how to get that person's attention in the worst way possible," Draco said, smiling a little. 

"You could have portkeyed me to a graveyard and used my blood to help you regenerate yourself into human form. That was probably the worst way to get my attention," Harry joked. 

Draco barked out a laugh. He liked that they could joke about the darkness, about Voldemort. 

Sometimes though. 

Draco took a breath. "Fair point," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "But Harry, you know, I am sorry about what happened that night. In the graveyard. I know...I know Lucius was there. I heard him talking about it that summer. And I know you saw Cedric get killed. And I. I'm sorry. About Lucius."

"Draco," Harry said softly, more serious now. "Don’t apologize for Lucius. And anyway, Voldemort marked me when I was a baby. After he heard part of a prophecy, second hand, the madman, he was always going to come after me; there was nothing anyone could have done to stop him, certainly not you. Not even Lucius.” He paused, took a breath. 

“And yes, watching Cedric die just because… because he was fair and wanted to tie for the win. It was horrible. It was the worst thing that had happened to me until that point, which, fuck. Worse things did happen. It was awful. It was a war. We were kids. It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't my fault. Even if it feels like we could have done something different, we didn't, we couldn't. Don't apologize to me for things your father, or Voldemort or—"

"My aunt," Draco inserted drily. 

"Or things your aunt did," Harry smiled. "As much as might feel like it sometimes, it wasn't your fault.”

Draco exhaled. He hadn't noticed that he’d been holding his breath. 

"How do you do that? How do you let it go?," he asked. Draco knew he had trouble forgiving himself. He didn’t even know how to try. 

"I see a mind healer. Hermione thought I had PTSD after the war. I didn't know what she meant, so I took an online quiz and answered positively to almost all the questions. I had nightmares; I was jumpy and couldn't relax. I'd hear a door slam, and I'd jump a million feet in the air, wand out. I was always on guard and couldn't sleep. Could barely eat. Ginny and I started dating again, and I thought it would help, but she had nightmares too, and mine made hers worse. My magic started to get unstable, and I had a hard time controlling it. I'd accidentally set papers or curtains on fire if I got angry or had an emotional outburst. So Hermione helped me find a mind healer who is a witch, who’s also familiar with Muggle psychiatry and PTSD treatments. She helped treat soldiers who came home from Afghanistan. She helped me. She still helps me." Harry looked at Draco. 

Draco nodded. "I saw one a few times, as part of my probation. He helped me with breathing exercises for when I got too overwhelmed, to calm down again. Centering yourself, he said."

Harry tugged at his hand. "Have you thought about going again? I could get you the name of someone. Not my mind healer, that might be a bit weird, but someone she recommends?"

Draco smiled. "Sure. Thank you ."

"Good." He paused. "Now, can you start calling me Auror Potter again? I like it when you call me that." Harry's eyes twinkled. _Merlin,_ the flirting. 

Draco went to shove him playfully in his chest, chuckling, and Harry caught his hand. He raised it to his lips, gently kissed his fingers, his knuckles, the spaces between, just as Draco had. He could barely breathe, could barely think. There was only Harry, his black hair, the scar that sliced down his forehead, his glasses, his green eyes. Clear brown skin. His mouth on Draco's hand, his soft lips. It was the single most erotic moment of Draco's life.

Harry turned his palm over, pressed a kiss in the center, placed Draco’s hand on Harry's cheek. They stared into each other's eyes, so close Draco could feel Harry's breath on his cheeks. He smelled like burnt sugar and tea, cedar and cinnamon. Draco lost himself in Harry's eyes; he couldn't look away even if he wanted to. Everything else faded into the background; the sound of the ocean, the wind nipping at them, the few tourists on the pier.

Harry traced Draco's bottom lip with his thumb. Draco felt it throughout his whole body, like Harry ignited a match that caught fire deep inside. 

"I'm going to kiss you now," Harry whispered.

"Please," Draco whispered back, and then everything shrunk; the only thing that existed was Harry's mouth on his. He tasted like salt and vinegar, too, like the ocean and something else, something uniquely Harry. Draco lost himself, tucked his fingers in Harry's waistband, stroked the smooth skin at his waist, and pulled him even closer. Harry gasped, wrapped Draco in his arms, parted his lips, and licked into Draco's mouth. Draco moaned as their tongues slid against each other, as he pulled at Harry's bottom lip with his teeth. As the kiss deepened, their glasses clinked together. They both smiled into each other's mouths, drew back at the same time. 

"Jesus Christ," Harry breathed. "Knock the breath out of a bloke, yeah?"

"I'm only still upright because you’re holding me," Draco smiled. 

"Come home with me. You won't have to stand anymore," Harry whispered as he planted small kisses on Draco's jawline, the corner of his mouth. 

Draco puffed out a breath. "You incorrigible flirt," he smiled into Harry's cheek, rubbed his lips on Harry's stubble. 

"Let me get you on your back, Malfoy," Harry teased. "Please?"

Draco pulled back so he could look into Harry's eyes, those green depths.

"Yes."  


Harry kissed him again. 

It felt like coming home.

*****

Harry apparated them into his bedroom at Grimmauld Place, lips still on Draco's, arms wrapped around him. Jesus Christ, he had no idea that kissing someone could be like this, could consume him so thoroughly. Harry needed all of Draco, needed him right now. He pulled back, smiled at Draco again, took in his messy blond hair, his flushed cheeks, his plump lips wet and parted. Stared into his gray eyes, noticed the blue in there, the flecks of gold. Lifted Draco's hand to his mouth again and kissed it, rubbed his thumb along Draco's long fingers, strong and sure from years of preparing potions ingredients, taking notes, twirling biros. 

"May I?," Harry asked as he reached up and tapped Draco's glasses. He nodded, and Harry gently removed the black frames, folded the arms. Took Draco's hand and tugged him toward the bed. Harry set Draco's glasses down on his nightstand, placed his own wire-frame pair next to them. He liked how their glasses looked next to each other. It looked domestic, like a tableau of comfort, of home. Of partnership, maybe love. Of family. It was too much to think about. 

He turned back to Draco, ran a hand through his hair. He had wondered how Draco's hair would feel; it was soft and smooth, with a tiny bit of texture.

"Harry," Draco whispered. "Harry, can I?," he tugged at the collar of Harry's leather jacket, the one that had been Sirius's. Harry nodded, and Draco slipped it off his shoulders. Harry reached out and gently pulled at Draco's tan trench coat, letting it fall to the floor. Smiled as he pulled off his own black t-shirt, tossed it to the side. Harry walked Draco back to the bed until his thighs bumped up against it. He cupped Draco's face in his hands again, brought him in for another slow, deep kiss, hissed when Draco traced lines across his back, down his sides, slipped his hands into his waistband again. Everywhere Draco touched lit on fire. Harry was so incredibly, thoroughly turned on. How had he spent so many years without Draco's hands on his body, without his mouth on Harry's? Harry shivered at the thought of more contact, more skin, more. He kissed down Draco's neck, licked across his pulse, down his Adam's apple. Draco tasted sharp, like grey salt, and warm, like honey.

He was intoxicating.  


Harry couldn’t breathe.

Harry leaned back again; Draco rubbed his hands down Harry's chest, through the dark hair. Smiled at him, sly. "I thought you said I wouldn't have to stand anymore."

And that was all it took. 

Harry pushed him back on the bed, removed Draco's shoes and socks. Toed off his own Chelsea boots and shucked his jeans, pulling off Draco's trousers as he crawled up his long, lean, pale body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. Draco was so beautiful. Harry thought he'd never get enough of him. 

He fit himself along Draco's side, traced his jaw, looked down into his silver eyes. 

"Hi." Harry smiled. 

Draco smiled back, and it filled Harry's heart. 

Harry started to unbutton Draco's shirt. He put his hand on Harry's, stopped him. 

"Harry—," Draco started. Took a breath, held Harry's hand, kissed his fingertips.

"Everything OK?," Harry asked, concerned. "Is this OK?"

"Yes," Draco sighed. "Yes, it's very much OK. It's just. I don't want you to have a...crisis of conscience, or whatever. I don't want you to feel bad when you—," Draco trailed off, motioning to his torso, still covered by his shirt. Harry had only managed to get two buttons undone before Draco had stopped him. 

Harry stared at his chest, wondering what Draco could possibly be embarrassed about. Draco was stunning; he was the most beautiful—realization slammed into him like a fist. 

"Oh bloody fuck," Harry sat up. "Oh fuck. Your chest, Draco. The bathroom, what I did, oh fuck, I'm so sorry—"

Draco sat up and put a hand on Harry's chest to still him. "See, you great bloody twit, this is exactly what I didn't want to happen. Having a meltdown about scars that are almost a decade old isn't sexy, Potter. Pull yourself together," he said softly, his tone gentle. 

He looked up at Draco, saw the plea in his eyes. Swallowed. "Draco, I—" 

"I do not want to hear it, Harry,” he said, still soft but firm. “I do not. What I want is for you to take ten more seconds to have your meltdown, and then I'm going to take this shirt off, and then we are going to spend the next twenty-four hours in this bed. Do you hear me? I've finally got a glimpse of you under that Auror coat, and I was right, you are bloody fit, and I plan on having my way with you. So. Ten seconds," Draco smiled and kissed his neck. 

Harry couldn't help it. He started to laugh. "Draco, Jesus. You sound like Robards, handing out orders." He flopped back down on the bed, rubbed his hands over his face. 

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?," Draco asked, lowering his lids. 

"Depends on how far you take it," Harry raised an eyebrow. 

Draco unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off, and laid down on top of Harry. Harry kissed him again, loving how Draco felt pressed up against him. Lost himself in Draco's warmth and drank in the heady scent of him as their bodies started to move together. Harry rolled them over and kissed down Draco's throat, across his collar bones. He loved how Draco responded, a bit breathless, making small noises. He propped himself on one arm next to Draco, who leaned into him.

"You OK?," Draco asked. 

Harry nodded. Bit his lip. "I promise I won't make this a thing. But. Can I… can I look?," Harry asked softly. 

Draco ran his hand through Harry's messy hair. 

"Yes."

Harry looked down at the network of white scars that marked Draco's torso. Traced a few of the silvery lines with his fingertips, paused when Draco inhaled, looked back up at him, his heart in his throat. 

"Draco, I'm—"

"Harry. Please don't," Draco breathed.

So he didn't. He moved down the length of Draco; slowly, he took his time. Kissed every one of the scars he'd put there. Worshipped them. Worshipped Draco. Took his wrist and kissed the mark on his forearm, too, for good measure. Made his way back up to Draco’s mouth, kissed the crook of his elbow, his shoulder, his neck. He looked down into Draco's stormy eyes, like the Atlantic in the winter. 

"Are you good?," Draco asked quietly, running his hands up Harry's back, sending shivers down his spine.

"Yeah," Harry exhaled. "Yeah."

"Good," Draco smiled and pulled Harry back into him. 

Harry lost himself in Draco. His long, pale limbs wrapped around him, the way they fit together, the way they moved. Draco's mouth, his hands left him trembling and weak, wanting more. Harry felt like he'd never be able to get enough of him. And he sunk into Draco, gave himself over, let Draco take up more of his breath, his heart, his head. 

Draco was a revelation. 

Draco was inevitable.


	5. Chapter 5

Two Years Before

Harry stared at the ceiling. There was a black mark from the _reparo_ he'd cast wandlessly last night, after they'd accidentally broken the headboard. He thought about casting scourgify on the mark to remove it, but Harry liked thinking about how they’d damaged the headboard. It had been rather fun; he wouldn't mind trying to break it again. 

Harry smiled and looked down at Draco, pale head resting on Harry's shoulder; arm flung across his chest. He squeezed Draco a little tighter, kissed the top of his head. He liked how Draco slept, loose-limbed and relaxed, worry lines smoothed on his forehead. He looked so young when he was asleep. 

Harry thought about the boy he'd known at Hogwarts. The arrogant, snide, cruel boy who taunted him and called his friends slurs. Who, later, had done horrible things, had done them without thinking, trying to stay alive. Harry thought about how pale and drawn Draco had looked in sixth year, at the manor, at his trial. Tried to reconcile all the different Dracos he knew in his head: snob, cult member, convicted felon. 

Then there was the man in their bed. This talented, thoughtful, intense person, who came apart at Harry's touch. Draco, who made better choices because Harry had said it mattered. Draco, who had, by some quirk of fate, chosen Harry. The Chosen One. The last person who had chosen him had also wanted to kill him. 

Harry thought about the choices he’d made. He hadn't been able to make many at all, for a long time. Voldemort stole a lot of Harry’s decision-making ability. So had Dumbledore, for that matter.

He didn’t choose the Dursleys, or to be a wizard, or Hogwarts. He’d chosen Gryffindor by messing about with that bloody hat. He never felt like he chose Ron and Hermione; they had always been there. But he supposed he had. 

Sirius chose Harry. Harry would have chosen Sirius if he'd ever had the chance. That still hurt.

Becoming an Auror had been the easiest and most obvious thing to do after the war, but Harry hadn't really thought about it when he joined. He did it because it was easy, and it felt like... like he owed it to people. He had picked the potions cold cases, after the first one, because of Draco. So it came back to Draco. Sometimes it felt like it always came back to Draco. 

Draco stirred and opened a sleepy silver eye. "I can feel you thinking," he said, voice rough with sleep. 

"You cannot, you great silly git." Harry smiled and rubbed Draco's shoulder. 

"I can. Your breathing changes when you're caught up in your head," Draco yawned and rolled onto his side, propped his head upon his arm, and tapped his finger to Harry's scar. "Spill, Potter. You don't do well when you're stewing. What are you thinking about?"

Harry sighed and rolled to face Draco. "Choices."

"Ahhh. I see. Any choices in particular?"

"Well, I was trying to think of things I'd actively chosen. My life...My life was predestined for a long time. I didn't have a lot of choices. I could only come up with three things. Well, four. But I never got to have the fourth thing."

"What did 'The Chosen One' choose, then?," Draco teased lightly and traced his scar, down through his eyebrow, to his cheekbone. 

"I chose Sirius. Even though I never got to live with him, I would have. I wanted to live with him and Remus. And I chose Ron and Hermione. But I suppose I chose them because I chose Gryffindor."

Draco's hand stilled, tilted his head. "What do you mean you 'chose Gryffindor'? The hat sorted you into Gryffindor."

Harry smiled a bit sheepishly. "Ah, yeah, well. It nearly didn't. It couldn't decide between Slytherin and Gryffindor. So I asked to be put in Gryffindor." 

"What?!," Draco yelped as he sat up. "You told the bloody Sorting Hat—an ancient sentient magical artefact—which house to put you in?"

Harry thought about it for a second. "I mean, I guess when you put it like that, yeah?"

Draco flopped back on the bed; the duvet pushed down below his hips. Harry was getting distracted. "I cannot believe you chose your house."

Harry grinned wickedly. "Jealous, Malfoy? Wanted to be in Gryffindor with me?"

"Merlin, could you imagine what Lucius would have done? I'm not sure who he would have gone after first—me, the hat, or Dumbledore," Draco laughed. The duvet slipped down even farther. Harry stared at his sharp hip bone, smooth and pale. Felt himself getting aroused. 

"Think about it, though. We could have been tiny Gryffindors together. You would have shared a dorm with us, and we would have had all our classes together. You and Hermione are both such swots; you'd probably have spent all your time studying together." Harry let his hand drift down towards Draco's hip, traced the skin at the edge of the duvet. 

"It seems the more likely scenario is that you would have wound up with me in Slytherin," Draco said, a wicked grin on his face, as he shifted closer to Harry. The duvet slipped down further. 

"Do you ever think about what it would have been like? If we had been friends the whole time?," Harry asked quietly, still tracing Draco's hip. "I think about it sometimes."

Draco looked into his eyes. "I think about it all the time, Harry. I think about how different everything would have been. I wish I’d been able to see it all better."  


It went straight to Harry's heart. Draco's honesty never failed to surprise him.

"Do you know how much I love you?," Harry whispered.

Draco smiled and pulled Harry closer. The duvet slipped, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination anymore. 

"I love you, too. So much," Draco whispered back, kissed him. 

Harry stopped thinking. 

One year after

Harry stared up at the cracked ceiling in his bedroom, traced the lines in the plaster with his eyes, one arm folded under his head, cigarette in his free hand. Took a long drag, blew it out, watched the blue-grey smoke dissipate in the early golden light; sunlight slanting through the shutters, Vespas humming, voices drifting up. 

“Perché sei sveglio, tesoro?,” a sleepy, husky voice drifted up from beside him. _Why are you awake, darling?_

Harry smiled and looked down at the figure sprawled next to him. Soft limbs tangled in white sheets, hair the color of mahogany fanned out across the pillow, halfway down her back, one sleepy dark eye looking up at him. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he answered as he stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the floor next to the bed. He rolled over to face her, leaned his forehead against hers, stroked his hand up and down her side. 

“You never sleep,” she said, smiling, as she reached out to trace his scar. She was the only person he had let do that since…since Draco. Harry pushed the thought aside. 

“Quando ti sogno,” he grinned and pulled her closer. _When I do, I dream of you._

She smiled and tapped his forehead playfully. “Always the flirt, Harry.”

“Only for you,” he answered as he drew her into a kiss. 

The Day Of

The owl dropped off the scroll, took the mouse treat Harry offered and left. It was addressed to Harry, but he didn’t recognize the seal. He hoped it wasn’t a piece of errant fan mail that had gotten through his system. 

He walked into the living room, and his breath hitched. Draco was at the liquor cabinet, his movements graceful and efficient as he pulled out glasses, conjured ice. He was wearing a black cashmere jumper and finely pressed grey trousers, and, as always, cheeky socks; today’s were purple with green dragons circling his ankles, puffing smoke. Harry couldn’t help but stare at Draco’s sharp profile, black glasses perched on his Aquiline nose, his full lips. He felt undone. 

Harry pulled his eyes away and broke the seal on the scroll, unfurled it to read.

Dear Mr. Potter,

We’re pleased to inform you that your order is ready for collection. To confirm, our artisans have created a platinum band, size nine, with custom engraving. After the initial deposit of two thousand galleons, the remaining balance is four thousand galleons. Please feel free to come by at your leisure. We look forward to your visit.  


Sincerely,  
Alfred Knowlton, Proprietor  
Morgana and Fae Fine Jewelers  
Diagon Alley

He reread it. A ring? A six thousand galleon ring? Harry hadn’t ordered a ring. The jeweler had made a mistake. They should be more careful, he thought. What a terrible way to ruin a surprise. Someone should let them know. 

“Earth to Potter. Sickle for your thoughts?”

Harry looked up, startled. He was so focused on the scroll; he’d forgotten Draco was in the room. 

“Oh. Hi.” He smiled up at Draco. He couldn’t help it. Draco made his heart skip a beat every time. It never failed, not even after three years.

“Hello.” Draco smiled and passed him his firewhiskey. “Did you hear anything I said, dear?,” he asked as he sat down in the armchair across from Harry’s.

Harry took a sip of his drink as he rolled up the parchment and shook his head. Tried to clear it. There was a thought forming, a realization creeping. It was a mistake, or maybe a prank.

“Sorry, love, I didn’t. What were you saying?,” Harry asked.

“I just wanted to know what you wanted to do for dinner.”

“Oh.” Dinner. Not a ring, then. 

“We could get takeaway? Or we could go out?,” Draco asked.

Harry needed to let the proprietor of the shop know about the mix-up. He could apparate over to the jewelers quickly; they could still be open. Then he could grab dinner and be back. It would hardly take any time. If they were closed, he’d know that he had at least tried, and he could go back again tomorrow. 

“I’ll go pick up dinner.”

Draco smiled, and Harry’s heart skipped another beat. Would he ever get used to it? “You don’t have to. We could get it delivered.”

“No, no, it’s OK, I could do with the walk. Curry OK? Chicken vindaloo?” Harry had to get this cleared up. He set his glass down on the coffee table and shoved the scroll in his pocket. 

He headed to the door, grabbed Sirius’s jacket. 

“Extra naan?,” Draco called as Harry opened the door. 

Harry looked back at Draco, took in his hopeful smile, his legs casually crossed, drink dangling from his hand. 

Draco was devastating. 

Harry thought about staying. 

He opened the door. 

“Always extra naan.” Harry smiled and walked through it. 

*****

He found Morgana and Fae Fine Jewelers at Diagon Alley's end, past Gringotts and the owl post office. It was a small shop, elegantly appointed, with glass cases adorned with colorful jewels, bright metals gleaming in the soft light. The carpet was royal blue with silver stars, so thick that Harry’s shoes sunk into it. A small man with puffy white hair and tiny glasses emerged from a concealed door. 

“Good evening. May I help you?,” he asked. 

“Good evening. Are you Mr. Knowlton?,” Harry replied.

“I am,” the man nodded. “And you are Mr. Potter, correct?”

He wasn’t surprised the jeweler recognized him. Harry nodded and held out the letter. “I received this from you earlier this evening. I believe it’s a mistake. I didn’t order a ring.”

Knowlton scanned the letter and, as he did so, his face fell. “Oh dear, my apologies Mr. Potter. You weren’t meant to be the recipient of this note, as you are not the person who purchased this item. I’m so sorry. I believe my assistant must have made a rather unfortunate mistake.” He put the parchment down on the counter and gave Harry a rueful smile. “I think it’s rather ruined a surprise?”

Harry’s eyes filled. He had thought, maybe hoped. This was the confirmation he needed. 

Draco bought a ring. 

Draco wanted to marry him. 

“Oh dear,” Knowlton said, and he conjured a handkerchief, white and smooth, without a wand. “I’m so sorry you found out this way. It is good news, though, is it not?” 

Harry took the handkerchief, wiped his eyes under his glasses, nodded. It was good news. But Harry felt so off-balance, so unmoored. He barely knew why he was crying. His stomach roiled as his eyes leaked. 

“I just wanted to know,” Harry said as he blotted his face more. “I didn’t know if it was what I thought. But, it is, and now I know, so. Well.” He took a deep breath. “It seems as though your assistant is a bit shit at their job.”

Knowlton huffed, and his mouth turned down. “Quite,” he said. “I’ll be having words with him.”

Harry sighed and tried for a small laugh. It came out rather strangled. Too many emotions threatened to overwhelm him. 

“Do you want to see the ring? It’s quite remarkable,” Knowlton said.

Before he could think, Harry nodded. Knowlton disappeared through the wall again, and Harry mopped up his face, blew his nose. He was a mess. Draco wanted to marry him. Merlin, Godric, and Salazar too. Draco wanted to _marry_ him. How was Harry ever meant to live his whole life with Draco, without being able to breathe, with needing him so much all the damn time? 

Knowlton appeared again and set a small wooden box on the counter between them. A stag and a doe, carved on the lid. _Goddamn you, Draco._ Harry felt his eyes start to fill again, took a few deep breaths to steady his emotions. 

He looked at Knowlton, who gestured at the box and said, “Whenever you’re ready, my dear boy.”

Harry lifted the lid and, nestled in midnight velvet, was a breathtaking, blinding ring. So bright it was almost white and imprinted with intricate, swirling patterns. He lifted the ring and rolled it in his fingers; it was heavy and solid, warm to the touch. He inspected it and realized the carved patterns moved, twisting around the band. Dragon scales, hawthorn branches, holly leaves; a snitch fluttered. The engravings collapsed in on themselves, reformed, in black and silver, white and smoke. As he turned the ring, constellations sparked and faded, the moon phased, a galaxy spun, a broom sped by, lilies bloomed. The flash of a snowy feather, a chess piece, runes, a rosebud, a toy Quidditch player. 

It was a history of them, a history of Harry’s family. It was Sirius, Remus, his parents. It was Ron and Hermione, Rose. It was Andromeda and Teddy. Hedwig. 

It was also Draco. 

Dragon scales, stars, thorns. 

It took his breath away, just like Draco. 

There were words engraved inside. Harry read them and felt his heart crack open. He put the ring back in the box, hands shaking slightly, and set it on the counter.  


“It’s extraordinary,” Harry managed to say, avoiding eye contact with Knowlton. 

“Your young man was exact.” Knowlton took the ring and stowed it in his robes. 

“That he is,” Harry nodded. “Thank you. I’ll be off.”

“My apologies, again, Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy will be so disappointed to know that his surprise was ruined.”

“I won’t tell him,” he said with a small smile. “As long as you knock off a few hundred galleons, yeah?” 

Knowlton nodded. “Only fair.”

Harry turned to go. “One more thing, Mr. Potter.” He paused. “The ring. It’s charmed to update. As you grow, as your family grows. The images evolve with you. Mr. Malfoy was quite insistent that it do this. He said something to the effect of ‘you create your family.’”

Harry nodded. He left the store. 

_Jesus Christ, Draco._ How could he bear it, wearing that ring?

He made his way back to the Leaky so he could apparate to the curry shop near Grimmauld. He felt agitated and wrong. Unworthy and too small. He felt like he was going to jump out of his skin, like his bones were on fire. 

It was wrong, this perfect ring. He couldn’t do this.

Harry apparated. He opened his eyes. He looked around. 

He felt no good and alone, and he knew. 

He wasn’t going home. 

*****

He was on a walkway next to a river, lazy and brown, shallow in the dying summer light. He looked to his right and saw a bridge; multicoloured buildings piled two stories high, some dangling over the water precariously. Almost as if they'd been haphazardly stuck there with magic. Which, Harry knew, they had been. 

The Ponte Vecchio. He was in Florence, then. 

He hadn’t thought about where he was going when he disapparated. Harry was lucky he hadn’t splinched himself. But here he was, staring at the magical buildings on a magical bridge in an ancient magical city. Harry could practically feel the magic, old and heavy, like carmine and ochre paint, like molten gold, incense, and cypress rising from the banks of the Arno. It settled around him like a heavy blanket, and he felt the bands around his chest loosen. 

It felt like he could breathe again. 

Harry walked toward the bridge and wondered why he wound up here. He’d read about Florence in a book about Italian alchemy practices during the Renaissance; Hermione had packed it in that damned beaded bag. It seemed the Medicis had a somewhat surprising amount of wizards in their employ and were obsessed with everlasting life. You didn’t patronize that much art if you weren't preoccupied with immortality. Hermione hoped their obsession extended to Horcruxes, but the Italians, it seemed, were more interested in creating a philosopher’s stone. Galileo had partially succeeded; he created a stone that turned metal into gold, but it hadn’t granted immortality, so he left it with the Medicis and buggered off. 

The partially functioning stone resulted in a line of gold shops stacked on top of each other. On a bridge, of all places. Wizards did have a flair for the dramatic. 

He remembered that the entrance to the wizarding area, Piazza della Cerchio, was outside the Uffizi, but couldn’t remember how you got in. He doubted it mattered very much, though; he vaguely remembered that lines defining Muggle and Wizarding society were less rigid in Italy. A Muggle hotel near the Piazza, then. 

Harry made his way through the winding streets, trying to pick out landmarks that he recognized from the book. Occasionally, he stopped to ask someone to set himself to rights. Florence was flooded with international students and tourists, so most people spoke a little English, and Harry knew enough to say, “Scusci, mi dispiace, conosco solo un po d’italiano, parle inglese?,” even if he butchered the accent. 

He found a small hotel, Casa del Garbo. He checked in, using his terrible Italian and a muggle credit card he kept on him for emergencies. And, well. A beautiful, perfect, terrifying ring counted as an emergency. 

Harry walked up to his room slowly. He cast a wandless tempus and saw that it was after eight here, which meant it was after seven back home. He should have been back a half-hour ago. He didn’t want Draco to worry. Harry considered sending a Patronus, letting Draco he was OK; he’d be back soon. But he couldn’t. He was still on fire, deep in his bones. He went into his room and laid down heavily on the bed. Tried to think about what, exactly, it was that he was doing here. Here, as in Florence. 

And here as in his life, too, he supposed. 

He loved Draco. He couldn’t breathe without him. He couldn’t breathe when he was with Draco, either. Draco was, in Harry’s case, breathtaking at every turn, at every moment. His skin felt hot on the cool white duvet. 

He started to realize that, perhaps, his need for Draco was the problem. 

Harry had fallen for Draco, so hard and so fast, he hadn’t ever stopped to think about it. He had seen someone trying to better himself, had seen this person he hated so much, who had done so much damage, take Harry’s advice, and honestly try to live by it every day. Draco was a walking embodiment of all the things Harry had hoped for after the war: a new start, a way forward, a life full of choices. But, for Harry, Draco had also felt inevitable. Like their mirrored histories were, in fact, two halves of the same coin. Like Harry hadn’t had a choice at all. And Draco was going to ask a question he’d have to answer. 

Harry knew, deep down, he’d say yes to Draco. 

There wasn’t another choice. 

Harry wanted a choice. 

*****

So he stayed. He tried not to think about what he was doing to Draco. To Ron and Hermione, and little Rose. To Teddy and Andromeda. The Weasleys, Ginny; Luna and Neville. He was pleasantly surprised to discover he didn't much give a fuck about what he was doing to his colleagues at the DMLE. Or to Kingsley, for that matter. He knew they’d probably sent out search parties for him. But he also knew they wouldn’t find him. Italian wizards were nothing if not discreet. Too much time hiding in plain sight from the Catholics had given them a particular perspicacity for blending in. 

He needed something for himself. 

He had wound up in Florence, birthplace of the Renaissance. 

That had to mean something.

So he found a flat near Il Duomo. He enrolled in the Florence Academy of Fine Arts. He was the Saviour of the Wizarding World, an ex-Auror, and had abandoned everyone he ever loved. Everyone who had ever loved him. 

And he was going to learn to paint. 

One Year After

Harry met Ottavia in his life drawing class. She sat next to him, caught his eye, and made a joke about nudity being next to godliness or something like that. He hadn’t followed the story very well; his Italian had still been shit. But she laughed easily, her dark eyes shone, and her hair swung while she drew. He found himself staring at soft curves, the way her black t-shirt stretched over her breasts, how her long aquiline nose scrunched when she didn’t like something. He liked her immediately. 

Ottavia was a Regolare, a regular, what the Italians called Muggles. They went to school with both wizards and Regolari—there was no separation here, and interacting with magical society was typical for Italians. To Ottavia, Harry was just a wizard, which didn’t mean all that much to her. He wasn’t The Chosen One; he wasn’t anyone exceptional. 

Ottavia was from Bologna, which had a long wizarding history, particularly in food. Muggles didn’t invent prosciutto and parmesan; tortellini and bolognese. She had a northern accent and a bit of a chip on her shoulder. He liked that about her too, her need to prove herself as worldly as the other students. He also liked that she liked him. And she liked other people. And sometimes she liked him with other people. 

Florence was a city of delights. Harry was happy. He pushed aside thoughts of silver skies and mist, grey eyes, a pale torso—a dim bed, a pale throat that smelled of lemon and thyme, clove and mint. Ottavia smelled like charcoal and tobacco, roses and smoke. She was dark and comfortable, and Harry could lose himself in her hair, her soft body, the way she gasped “non fermarti,” _don’t stop_. And he did forget when her breath ghosted his neck, her dark thighs wrapped around tight around his waist. 

Ottavia was a choice he made. Just as he’d chosen to stay in Florence, to enroll in art school. He liked his choices so far, even if all of his drawings looked like the same person, long-limbed, sinewy; sharp features and heavy-lidded eyes. 

Ottavia had pointed it out. It was the first time she’d been in his flat; she wandered about his studio, idly sorted through his sketches, stacked up on the table, pinned to the easel, taped to pieces of cardboard, propped up against the walls. 

“Chi desegni?” _Who do you draw?_  


He stared at her. 

Saw his drawings through her eyes.

It was Draco. 

Harry took the wine glass out of Ottavia’s hand and led her to his bed. He could answer any questions she asked him there. He couldn’t answer anything else. 

He resented his subconscious for always returning to England, to him. So he chose Ottavia. He chose her laugh and her stories, the way she talked with her hands, on pub nights with their friends, waving her drink in one hand and an MS cigarette in the other. He chose her, and he liked the people she chose. Jeremy, the American art history student. Dagmar, the Asutrian painter. Harry got to choose too. Lubanzi, the South African footballer. Seo-Yun, the Korean jewelry apprentice. 

Florence was a refuge.

He missed his friends, his family. The one he created when he was eleven with Ron and Hermione, and the one he made later, with Draco. 

He knew what he had done to them, when he left.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything else. 

He was unknown here.

It felt like freedom.


	6. Chapter 6

Two years after

Draco stared at the ceiling, arms behind his head, white sheets pushed down to his hips, torso bare and still scarred. He didn't startle awake anymore, didn't need to count the spell marks on the ceiling, or complete any of his other rituals. Well, except running. He still ran. Dr. Ducharme, his mind healer, said the exercise was good for him. But he took days off now. 

His eyes wandered over the imperfections in plaster, the places where the midnight paint had dripped, where the charmed stars sparkled, periwinkle and platinum. He liked this ceiling. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn’t marked with magic gone awry, with a history of—nevermind. 

Today was Saturday.

Draco looked over at the sleeping form next to him, straight black hair and smooth skin. Studied the planes of his face, dark eyebrows over closed eyes, framed by long black lashes. Sharp cheekbones, pointed chin. Draco reached out to brush some of the silky hair off his forehead, and was greeted with a sleepy smile as black eyes opened slowly. 

Dai smiled at Draco every morning like it was an easy thing to do. Draco supposed that, for Dai, it was. He let his fingers card through Dai's hair, trail down his back, playfully tap the dimples right above his arse.

"What do you think you're doing?," Dai asked, smiling and sleepy.

"Oh, nothing," Draco smiled. 

Dai pushed himself up on his forearms, leaned over, and kissed Draco slowly, with intent. Draco inhaled as Dai pulled back; he smelled like lime and basil, rain and grass. Like spring, Draco thought. Dai had told him that his name meant "shining treasure" in Japanese, which suited him. He was Draco’s bit of gold, of light. Draco leaned in to kiss him again, slipped his tongue into Dai's mouth, nipped his lower lip. 

"Good morning," Dai whispered into Draco's mouth. "I missed you while I was asleep."

Draco smiled against Dai's lips, "How can that be when I'm right here?"

"I don't see you in my dreams." Dai deepened the kiss again. 

"You're always in mine," Draco breathed. 

Draco pushed the sheets down, straddled Dai's legs, and massaged his back, stroked long lines down his muscles. Dai sighed happily and laid down. Draco loved watching his muscles dance and jump under his touch, loved watching him become pliant and loose under Draco's hands, loved moving his fingers over his back and legs until Dai begged Draco to say the spells, sliding together until they were both slicked with sweat.

Today was Saturday. 

Draco took the day off from running. 

*****

They met at a potions conference in Morocco six months ago. Angelos had retired before—before, everything. He moved back to Morocco, a place he considered home far more than Greece or England. Draco hadn’t been abroad since—well, since.

Dr. Ducharme encouraged him to go to the conference, to see his old friend and mentor. Draco felt like he could, perhaps, move on. Maybe he was ready. Under Dr. Ducharme's guidance, Draco had grieved. He moved out of Grimmauld, had it warded it to keep everyone but Ron, Hermione, and…him out. Draco knew that if he allowed himself back in, the temptation to get lost there again would be too great. 

He went back to his flat in Shadwell. He liked being there; it's muggle roots. He painted every room a different shade of blue. Charmed the walls and the ceilings with clouds; birds and stars. He wanted to feel like he was in the sky.

The convention was in Essaouira, bright white and blue, sandy and windswept. Broad beaches to the west; Acacia trees to the east, artisans shaped the mottled wood into trinkets for tourists. He met up with Angelos, tanned and wrinkled, to drink his mint tea and go over new potions methods; to update ingredients purveyors. They'd walked along the beach, Angelos smoking brown cigarillos, Draco getting color on his cheeks, freckles sprinkling across his nose. Afternoons spent in cafes, taking notes, arguing good-naturedly—did you add aconite to the headache draught before or after the moonstone? Watching football on the telly in the cafe, cheering with the other men. 

Draco missed Angelos, missed having someone to talk to about his work. Since Angelos had retired, he worked alone. No one stopped by Asclepius anymore, dropping off confiscated potions, pestering him with questions. After—after everything, Draco stopped consulting for the DMLE. He couldn't. He didn't want to.

He met Dai at the opening reception. In a wizarding hotel right on the beach, with tiled floors, sapphire and bone. He was interested in the American with his California accent, his long hair tied back in a ponytail. Dai was casual in shorts and a ratty t-shirt, clavicle exposed, inky black flowers trailing up his neck. 

Dai was gorgeous. He was thoughtful, careful with his words, a good listener. He was also an exceedingly talented potioneer. They were complementary; Dai was at the forefront of growing new hybrid ingredients, using Muggle cross-pollination methods to evolve plants' effectiveness in potions, while Draco’s brewing methods were cutting-edge. They exchanged notes after sessions while sipping vodkas with lemon soda at the hotel bar. Draco hadn’t realized what it could be like, to connect with who someone shared your life's work, your passion. 

It took them two days to fall into bed. Draco was timid, unsure. He hadn't been with anyone since—him. He didn't know if he could. When Dai kissed him, Draco expected him to smell like burnt sugar and tea, not basil and mint. He startled, pulled out of the kiss, realized the mistake he’d made. Stared into eyes so dark they were almost black, not green. 

Considered his choices. 

Dai was patient. He let Draco work it out, didn’t ask questions, or demand any more physical contact. Draco thought it through. Thought about how he grieved, even though he wasn't dead. Dr. Ducharme had said that Draco wasn't responsible for anyone's happiness except his own. And happiness wasn't a constant state, that it was our life's work to learn how to live with all emotions, to embrace every one. 

Draco was scared. Scared of what falling into bed with someone new might mean. He was excited too. And Dai. Dai was beautiful. Opening himself up to someone else, in bed or otherwise, could be part of the process of forgiveness. He knew how to acknowledge the harm done. But now, maybe it was time to acknowledge comfort, healing, pleasure.  


He leaned back in, took Dai's face in his hands and kissed him, tasted him. He tasted like vodka and mint, basil and lemon. 

Draco ignored the voice that whispered, deep inside: he still lived by Harry's advice. 

He made the right choice anyway. 

One year after

Pansy had just left. Draco was stared into the bottom of his wineglass, an unopened bottle sitting next to him. He was trying to decide if he wanted to open it. He was pleasantly numb. Another bottle, and he could force himself to forget. He chose to forget and reached for the wine key, when a bright, shimmering blue light exploded into the kitchen, through the french doors. Draco pushed his stool back so hard it toppled; he fumbled for his wand. Blinked dark spots away from his vision. It was too bright. 

He blinked a few more times, shielded his eyes. Looked up.

It was a Patronus.

A stag. 

It stood there, no message. It shook its head slightly, stomped its feet. Before Draco could stop himself, he reached toward its snout. The stag brushed its nose against his hand; it felt like smoke and ice, mist and gossamer. Draco moved to stroke its face, and the stag faded into nothing, leaving the kitchen darker than it had been before.

Draco stared at his hand, the one that had just been petting the stag.

Without realizing what he was doing, he picked up the wine bottle. 

Threw it through the doors. 

Glass smashed, the wine bottle exploded; burgundy pooled on the floor, shards glinted in the light. 

And that was it. All it took was that great, bloody, beautiful stag to jolt him out of his endless sadness and into a blind, all-encompassing rage. He pulled plates out of the cupboards, heaved glasses against the wall. Yanked drawers off their tracks, dumped their contents. Broke chairs, cast a _diffindo_ at the table, reducing it to splinters. Blind with fury, he made his way through the ground floor, slashed lines across the walls with his wand, ripped art off the walls, smashed picture frames. He stormed upstairs to their room, shredded the bed, the pillows, the curtains. 

Draco was incandescent. He felt his magic pulse through his veins, bubbling and hot, like lava and fire. He yanked his sock drawer out, dumped the contents on the floor. Found what he was looking for, wrapped in a pair of red socks with lions, a joke gift. Ripped the socks off and held it up: a wooden box, with a stag and doe carved on the lid. Out of breath and losing steam, he ripped it open and took out the ring. Felt the fire in his arm, in his hand. Threw the ring on the floor and cast an _incendio._ Watched the pile of socks ignite, spreading to the rug. The flames leaped up as Draco concentrated on holding the spell. He was sweating now, his face orange and red, but he didn't stop. He didn’t stop until the ring melted, until it was just a hunk of molten silver. 

Wrung out and helpless, he shuffled back downstairs to the fireplace. Flooed to Pansy’s. She ran out of the bedroom, in a t-shirt and knickers. Draco promptly burst into angry, awful tears and fell into her arms. 

He told her about the Patronus. About the destruction. He drank a bottle of her wine, passed out on her couch. Draco woke up the next day, took a hangover potion, closed the shop for the day, and moved back into his apartment in Shadwell. 

Fuck Harry Potter. 

Draco almost wished he was dead. 

It would have been easier than hating him again.


	7. Chapter 7

One Year After

Draco stared at the ceiling, looking for a mark, an imperfection, anything to focus on. It was perfectly smooth and featureless—how Draco felt. His head was tilted back, resting uncomfortably on the back of the overstuffed chair. 

“Draco,” Dr. Ducharme said. "I know it's difficult to think about. But we should perhaps talk about it, oui?"

He lifted his head and looked at his therapist. Dr. Ducharme was terribly chic for a mind healer, tall and willowy; blond hair pulled back into a chignon at her neck, black layered skirts draped over legs elegantly crossed. A notebook and biro held loosely in her hands. 

She reminded him of Narcissa. 

He huffed in a way that he hoped was very French. "I'd rather not."

"OK, Draco, we don't have to, but you did say that you blamed yourself for Harry leaving. I feel like maybe we need to talk about why you are taking that on yourself."  


Draco stared at her. She stared back, face politely blank and a little expectant. Fuck, why had he agreed with Pansy? 

Oh right, the Patronus. 

How was he supposed to talk about this? How do you even say the words out loud? 

Fuck Harry, seriously. Draco had been OK before that arsehole had started coming around his shop. And now, his whole life felt like it was ending. 

Draco wanted his life back. He had wanted his life with Harry back. 

Then the Patronus had appeared. 

Now he just wanted his own life. 

He took a deep breath, mustered up what little courage he had left, and chose to tell Dr. Ducharme the whole sordid tale. She took notes as she listened. He cried. He banged his fist against the armchair. He finally got it all out. And, when he was done, he felt lighter. Waited for her to respond. 

"So, Draco, if I understand this correctly, you and your partner had been on opposite sides in the war. You were on the wrong side. And he was destined to defeat evil, to win the war, and save everyone. Before that, though, you had both hated each other in school and antagonized one another—"

"I antagonized him, mostly. I wanted his attention," Draco interrupted. 

"Ah, yes, OK, you wanted his attention, and you got it by antagonizing him. And then he hurt you in a bathroom, but then you possibly saved him. He saved you, both in a fire during the battle and from a stricter sentence after the war. Then he came to you for professional help. And you started working together, and you became friends, then started dating. You fell in love. You moved in with him. You were going to propose, but then he disappeared—"

"Left," Draco interrupted again. "He left."

"Oui, oui, he left before you could. Do I have the basic story correct?"

"Yes," Draco sighed deeply. This was all so fucked. 

“That’s quite a bit of history. Please, can you tell me, how did you feel about Harry when you were in school? How did you become enemies?,” Dr. Ducharme asked, biro poised over her notebook. 

Draco looked down at his hands, felt himself shrink, and the familiar, sullen feeling of his childhood settled over him. “He wouldn’t shake my hand.”

“Tell me more,” she said. 

Draco sighed deeply. “He was famous. He had defeated the Dark Lord as a baby, and everyone knew he would be in my year at Hogwarts. Lucius—my father—wanted me to try to befriend him. Thought that it would be good for the family to have an in with ‘The Boy Who Lived,’” he mimed air quotes. “So I tried to make friends with him on the train to school and, inevitably, fucked it up by making fun of his friend—who, ironically, also became my friend after Harry and I started dating—and he refused to shake my hand. Was a bit of a shit about it, too, frankly, but I rather respect him for it now. He made the right call.”

“Why do you say ‘he made the right call’?”

“Because I was an arrogant, condescending, imperious child who ordered my friends around, idolized my father—who held some deeply problematic views on blood supremacy—and I eventually became part of his fascist cult. I was also incredibly mean-spirited and quite creative in my methods of antagonization. I went for the low blow, every time. I made fun of Harry for being an orphan, for his—our—friend Ron, for his family being poor. I called his—our—other friend, Hermione, a racist slur because she was Muggle-born. I was hateful. I didn’t deserve his friendship, even before I joined the fascist cult.”

“Ah, I see. At what age did you join the, as you say, ‘fascist cult’?,” Dr. Ducharme paused in her note-taking to study him. 

“I was sixteen.”

“Ah, OK. And how old were you when you met Harry, when he rejected you?”

“Eleven.”

“And how old when you antagonized him, creatively, as you say?”

“Probably from eleven to fourteen or fifteen.”

“Yes, OK, I see. And how old were you when he saved you? And you saved him. During the war?”

“Seventeen.” 

“Yes, thank you. And when he spoke on your behalf, at your trial?”

“We were both eighteen.”

She was taking notes, her biro flying across the notebook. “Yes, and when you started working together, when he came and asked for your help. How old were you then?”

“Twenty-four.”

“So you began dating at twenty-five, then? And you were together for three years, until you were twenty-eight, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I’m not sure what an exact timeline really has to do with this…” he trailed off. 

“Yes, ah, you see, Draco. Your father wanted you to befriend Harry when you were a child. You did not manage that because, at the time, Harry did not wish to be friends. Then you, as you say, antagonized him through your young teen years. Then, at sixteen, you joined this fascist organization, officially, yes?” She paused, and Draco nodded. “Yes, OK. And you stopped antagonizing Harry after this?”

Draco shifted in his seat. Fuck. He didn’t want to admit to Dr. Ducharme, during his first visit, that he had attempted murder while still underage. 

“Well, yes. I mean. I had taken the Mark—when you joined Voldemort’s band of freaks, the Death Eaters, they literally branded you with a ‘Dark Mark,’” again, he made air quotes. “It was all rather theatrical, and now that I’m saying it out loud, it sounds ridiculous. But, yes, I took the Mark the summer before our sixth year.” He hoped she would drop it. 

“Yes, then what changed? Why did you stop antagonizing Harry after taking this Dark Mark?”

Draco breathed in for four, held, out for four. “I was. Voldemort gave me a task. My fath—Lucius was in prison; he had failed. The dark lord was angry with my—Lucius, for his failure, and he demanded that I join the Death Eaters as his replacement. So then, when I went back to school, Voldemort… he… he demanded that I kill the headmaster of our school. Before the end of the school year. So. I had to….figure out how to do that,” he trailed off again, the familiar shame creeping. 

To her credit, Dr. Ducharme barely raised an eyebrow at this information. Draco was starting to like her. Even if he felt like he was going to jump out of his skin.  


“So you had no time to antagonize Harry, then. Because you were forced to join a hate group as a sixteen-year-old and then also told to kill your headmaster. Did he threaten you? Coerce you in some way?,” Dr. Ducharme asked. 

Draco felt cornered. He wasn’t at his best when he felt cornered. “Oh yes, terribly sorry,” his voice thick with his poshest accent, dripping with sarcasm, “I did rather quite forget to mention that the evil despot did, in fact, tell me that if I failed in murdering my headmaster who, by the by, was the greatest wizard who had ever lived, he would kill my mother and make me watch. And then I believe he was going to kill me after. Said he’d feed me to his quite large snake, as it were.” Draco met her gaze evenly for a few seconds, then dropped his head, abashed. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It was all so fucked up.”

“Yes, I’d rather say it was.” Draco looked back up, a bit taken aback. She was smiling. He tried to smile a little, too. 

“May I ask you to clarify what you meant by his ‘large snake’? Was that code for something?,” she asked.

Draco snorted. “No. He had a huge fucking snake that followed him everywhere, and he’d feed people to her. I told you he was fucking dramatic.”

Dr. Ducharme pursed her lips. “Hmmm, yes. Well, then, you were given a terrible and impossible task, so you didn’t focus on Harry anymore. It was after this that you both saved each other?”

“Well, he certainly saved me. I’m not so sure I saved him, and it was after I had already used two Unforgivable Curses on people—”

“Let me stop you there, Draco, please. For one moment. Which Unforgivable Curses did you use on people?”

“I imperiused a bar owner and cast the cruciatius curse on people in my house.”

“And why did you do these things?”

Draco thought about it. “I supposed I did them because I had to.” 

“Why did you think you had to?”

“Well, I imperiused the bar owner as a part of the plan I had to mur—to take care of the headmaster. And I was forced to _crucio_ fellow Death Eaters; they were all using my house as a headquarters at the time. And he—Voldemort— used to think it was fun for me to torture other people and then threaten both of us. He would threaten to feed the person I was torturing to the giant snake, sometimes. Or sometimes he’d threaten to have my aunt or uncle _crucio_ me if I wasn’t doing a good enough job at torture for him. He always let me know that he’d hurt my mother if I didn’t do what he said,” Draco finished, sighed. 

“Yes, OK, you used both of these Unforgivable Curses under threat of torture and possibly death. And sometimes, your family also participated in these threats. Draco, do you see how traumatic this is for a teenager? For anyone, really. But you were a teenager in a terrible situation, and your life was threatened. Please, tell me how you and your ex-partner saved each other,” she nodded, motioned for him to continue.

Draco sighed. “Well, he and his friends were captured at one point, and were brought to my house. Everyone knew that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were on the run together and, by sheer luck, the death eaters captured them. But Harry was disfigured when they brought him in; his face was swollen, almost unrecognizable. Hermione had hexed him, to try to alter his appearance to protect him. So my aunt wanted me to identify that it was him, that we’d captured Harry Potter, before she called lord fuckface.” He pushed his glasses up, pressed his fingers to his eyes. 

“I knew it was him. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hand him over. I had seen enough. So I just said I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t say no; it wasn’t him. I didn't try to protect him or his friends, really. My aunt tortured Hermione shortly after I said I didn’t know if Harry was, well, Harry. I couldn’t protect her. And I couldn’t protect the people—other students, an old man, a goblin. The people he held in our basement. Locked up. I couldn’t help anyone.” Draco paused, took another deep breath, ran his hands over his face. 

“And then, Harry saved me. During the battle. I—he had my wand. He had taken it when he left the manor. So my friends and I followed him during the battle; I wanted to get it back. I had my mother’s wand, but I wanted mine. So we followed him and his friends into a room. It was a secret room called The Room of Hidden Things at our school, and I knew how to get into it because I had used it the year before. And then,” Draco swallowed. Talking about Vince was hard. 

“Well. My friend, he wanted to kill Harry, but I said we couldn’t because Voldemort wanted him alive. But I didn’t know if that was true; I just said it. I didn’t want anyone else—Harry—to get hurt. I just wanted my wand back. And then my friend—he was my friend, his name was Vince. He unleashed a deadly fire, and my other friend, Greg, passed out. The fire was eating everything in its path; we were going to die. And then Harry saved me. On a broom, he flew me out of the room, away from the fire. And Ron and Hermione saved my other friend, Greg. I never did get my wand back, that day.” Draco rubbed his hands over his thighs, trying not to fidget. This was hard.

Dr. Ducharme studied him. “Would you say that Harry is also alive because of you?”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. “No.” 

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t save him. I just...didn’t identify him.”

Dr. Ducharme set her notebook aside. “Draco, it seems to me like you were raised a certain way. And you had certain prejudices and were perhaps a bit antagonistic towards Harry when you were young. Then you were inducted into this order, this group of fascists, and you were trying to stay alive and trying to protect your mother, all while only sixteen. So you left Harry alone. And then, when you saw him next, you did your best to protect him, even if you don’t feel like it was enough. And then you tried to save him again, in the hidden room. And then he and his friends saved you. So, it seems to me that, when your lives were literally on the line, you both chose to protect each other in the best ways you could.”

Draco picked at the arm of the chair and jostled his legs. He didn’t say anything. 

“You seem to be placing an adult-level amount of blame on the shoulders of your teenage self. I know it’s quite hard, with hindsight, not to re-examine every bad thing we’ve ever done, to go over how we could have known better, done better, or made better choices. But each of us typically does the best we can with the information we have at the time. Did you make some bad choices? Yes. Were you surrounded by adults who were also making bad choices and encouraging you to do the same? It seems so.” She paused. Draco fidgeted. 

“And then, when you had new information, and you perhaps knew that you were on the wrong side, you still had awful choices. So you made the best ones you could. The ones you thought would keep you and your mother alive. Were they good choices? Not particularly. But you didn’t know what the outcome of your actions would be, and you were just doing your best.” She stopped, and Draco stared at this lap. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

Dr. Ducharme continued. “When it came down to it, you couldn’t knowingly hurt someone without being directly threatened. You didn’t kill your headmaster. You didn’t turn over Harry, and you didn’t let your friends try to hurt or kill Harry either. Our work here is for you to learn how to accept that you did your best, to stop torturing yourself, and to forgive yourself, oui?”

Draco finally looked up. “What if I don’t feel like I deserve forgiveness?”

She studied him for a moment. “Well, then what was the point?”

“The point?,” he asked. 

“What was the point of you saving Harry, and of him saving you, if you refuse to forgive yourself? You’ve been a productive member of society; you had a very successful relationship. You can’t live a fulfilling life while still punishing yourself.”

Draco latched on to one part. “A successful relationship? You do realize that my boyfriend, the most famous wizard of all time, did choose to leave me by going out for takeaway curry and never coming home again, right?”

“You are focusing on Harry. I would like our work here to focus on you.”

“Yes, I understand, but how exactly would you characterize our relationship as ‘successful’ when one half of it left like a thief in the night?,” Draco felt his blood start to boil again. That fucking stag. 

Dr. Ducharme leveled another look at Draco. “A relationship’s success is not dependent on its length. Just because it ended doesn’t mean it failed.” 

That pulled Draco up short. Until Harry left, he would have thought that their relationship was incredibly successful. They cared for each other, supported each other. They worked on the potions cases for the DMLE; they were good partners. Harry knew how Draco liked his tea; Draco knew Harry liked Wine Gums and bought them for him whenever he was near an off-license. The sex was amazing. Draco had wanted to marry Harry. He had bought a ring. 

Maybe it wasn’t a failure. Maybe it was just over. He nodded stiffly. “OK, then. Forgiving myself. How do we do that?”

“Oui,” Dr. Ducharme said. “Let’s get started.”


	8. Chapter 8

Two Years After

Draco stirred the potion, three times clockwise, six widdershins, checked the tempus timer he’d set. He had six more minutes before he had to add the essence of daisy root to the regenerative draught he was developing. This was his fifth version, and he was taking notes as he went, marking down the new changes and noting how the potion reacted at each stage. 

He heard the bell chime over the door. Damn. This was the worst time for a customer. He was about to shout that he just needed a few minutes (three minutes and fifty-three seconds, to be exact) when he heard Dai call, “Don’t stop what you’re doing, love, it’s just me!”

Draco smiled. He loved having a partner in the shop again. It made the days pass quickly, and Dai was an excellent potioneer, knowledgeable in areas that were Draco’s weak spots. He pushed Draco to learn more, do more. 

In Morocco, on the last day of the conference, Dai and Draco had been in bed. It was early, the sun just beginning to peek over the Atlantic, the light faded denim and pink. They had been up all night, savouring each other, making the most of their last night together. Draco was on his back, Dai in his arms, dark head on a pale shoulder. His hand idly traced the black lines tattooed down Dai’s back; runes and scales; a raven, a ginkgo tree. 

Draco didn’t want to leave him. It had only been a week, but he knew. Dai was someone worth holding on to. Draco knew how precious time was, now. Knew how important it was to tell people how you felt about them. He didn’t think about it.

“Come home with me?,” Draco asked, softly.

Dai raised his head, a small line between his eyes, a question. 

“What did you say?,” slightly sleepy. “I thought I heard you ask me to come to England with you?”

Draco looked down at him, into his black eyes. “I did. Come home with me.”

Dai sat up. “Draco, I…what?”

Draco sat up, too, faced him. Put a hand to Dai’s cheek and traced his jawline. “I mean it. Come home with me. I want…I want you. I haven’t wanted anything for a long time. And this week has been brilliant. You’re brilliant. And I want to see what this—us—could look like, for real. And I don’t want to be coy, or act like I don’t have feelings for you. I’ve learned that nothing’s guaranteed. So I want to be honest with the people in my life. And I want to get to know you. Not from a distance, together.”

Dai covered Draco’s hand with his own. He took it, kissed his knuckles. Draco inhaled sharply, tried to forget, to concentrate on what was happening right now, in front of him. Not Brighton, or Grimmauld, or a thousand other places in England. Here. 

“I can’t believe you’re asking me to come home with you,” Dai shook his head. “You know how crazy that sounds?”

“I do. I don’t care. Come home with me. You can work with me at Asclepius. You can research Western European herb and plant variations. I’ll take you everywhere; Scotland, Ireland, France. We can go wherever you want. Come home and work with me.” Draco knew it was too fast, too much. He didn’t care. 

Dai searched his eyes, Draco’s hand still in his. “You’re serious?,” he asked. 

“Yes,” Draco breathed. 

Dai was silent, still studying Draco’s face, looking for whatever it was he needed. Draco held his gaze. He knew, after only a few days, to give Dai time. He needed to work through what he wanted to say. Draco could wait as long as it took. Whatever Dai decided. Draco had to ask, no matter the outcome. 

Dai breathed in, exhaled. “You’re extraordinary. And I can’t believe I’m going to say this but, yes. I’ll go home with you.” Dai smiled, kissed Draco’s hand again. 

Draco grinned. “Really?”

“Really,” Dai nodded.

They fell back in the hotel bed, wrapped themselves up in each other, whispered hopes, and made plans. Moved together until they came undone, a promise of something new instead of a good-bye. 

*****

Dai walked in through the door, levitating a crate in front of him and carrying a large paper bag. He set the crate down gently, put his wand in his back pocket, and walked over to the worktable. Leaned down and kissed Draco on his temple. 

“Missed you,” Dai smiled. 

“You’ve been gone for an hour,” Draco murmured, looked up at his bloody gorgeous boyfriend. 

“Missed you anyway,” Dai kissed him again and stood up. Looked into the cauldron. “Which version is this?”

Draco blinked. Dai was good at distracting him. “Um, the fifth.”

Dai nodded at the tempus. “You only have a few seconds left, babe.”

Draco tore his eyes away from the line of Dai’s throat. “Bugger, you distracted me. Go over there right now,” he pointed across the table as he stood up. He only had fifteen seconds before he needed to add the daisy root essence. He concentrated on stirring and, when the timer chimed, he added it. The potion turned bright yellow, precisely what he hoped would happen. He turned the heat down and watched it bubble softly. Draco looked at his notes, marked down the steps, the reaction. Reset the tempus for another hour and cast a protective shield over the cauldron. 

Dai had set the paper bag down on the table between the wingback chairs and emptied the crate, full to the brim with plant specimens. He laid them out on the second worktable they’d added for Dai. It was a veritable indoor garden; clippings and seedlings under UV light charms, larger plants and trees stacked in the back, near the windows, tools and notebooks scattered throughout. Draco loved it. 

Draco came up behind him, wrapped his arms around Dai’s waist, kissed the back of his neck.

“What’s in the bag?,” he asked, trailing kisses across the bare skin, just above the collar of his t-shirt. 

Dai leaned into him, sighed. “Dinner. Well, for you, it’s probably lunch and dinner. I know how you get when you’re working on something,” he smiled. 

Draco felt his stomach rumble. Dai was right; he had completely let the time get away from him. He hadn’t eaten anything since the toast he’d had for breakfast. That Dai had made him. He’d also brought him food yesterday. Was Dai currently responsible for feeding Draco? He frowned. 

“What’s the matter?,” Dai asked, turning his head. 

“How can you tell that something’s wrong?,” Draco asked, setting his chin on Dai’s shoulder. “I’m behind you.”

Dai huffed. “I can feel you frown. What is it?”

“I just realized that you’ve been responsible for feeding me lately. I’m sorry, that isn’t your job. I’ll be better about it,” Draco mumbled. 

Dai pulled out of Draco’s arms, turned to face him. Took Draco’s face in his hands and kissed him, slowly, sweetly. “I know how you are. I know how hard you work. It makes me happy to feed you,” he pushed Draco’s hair off his forehead. Kissed him again. 

Draco broke the kiss, pulled back a little. “Thank you,” he whispered. Thought about the last time someone else had gone to get dinner. He started to push the thought away, but remembered his work with Dr. Ducharme, to embrace all emotions. He tried to lean into it, into the pain of the memory—the fear and anger. The deep sadness, when he had realized what happened. 

Dai rubbed a thumb over his forehead, as if he was trying to smooth the lines there. “Where are you?,” he asked. “Where did you go?”

Draco focused on him again, felt guilty for thinking about Harry now, in Dai’s arms, when he’d brought dinner. 

“Nowhere,” Draco tried to smile. Failed. 

Dai looked into his eyes, the way he always did when he was working through something, formulating a response.

“You do that, you know. Disappear sometimes. I can see you drift off. What are you thinking about when you do that?,” Dai asked. 

Draco raised an eyebrow, feigned innocence. “Really? I guess I’m just working through a potions problem.” The lie slipped out. 

Dai studied him some more. “You’re not,” he said simply. Pulled back, walked to the table. 

“I got curry, that OK? Extra naan,” Dai said as he opened the takeaway bag. 

Draco tried to smile, like he was fine. 

“Perfect,” he managed to get out.

He tried not to feel anything else. 

Two Years After

Harry was in his studio painting a large-scale portrait of a figure, disjointed and abstract. He’d found he liked building frames, stretching the canvas, prepping it. Blending the paint on his palette, rinsing the brushes in muddy water. He liked how it smelled, the turpentine and oil, heavy and sharp. His dirty jeans hung low on his hips, his bare chest covered with paint splotches. 

Art had been a refuge. Harry didn’t think he was particularly good at it, but he liked the mess you had to make when creating something. How you had to keep working at it, how you had to make things that were terrible to be able to make something beautiful. How you could change your mind halfway through; start over, make something new. How you could feel something, deep inside you, and make other people see it too. 

Ottavia wandered in, dressed in only an oversized grey t-shirt, ripped at the hem, and her knickers, a flash of pink as she walked. Hair piled on top of her head, feet bare, she carried two demitasse cups of coffee. Balanced one on Harry’s rolling art supply cart. Stood just behind him, took a sip of her own coffee. 

“Come stai, amore?,” she asked. _How are you, love?_

“Va bene,” Harry smiled, as he glanced at her, then stood back to look at his painting. 

“Chi é lui? He’s in all your paintings?,” she asked, again. She would ask, every once in a while. 

“Nessuno,” Harry replied, like he always did. _No one._

She let out a small noise of disapproval. He never answered her. He knew she didn’t like it. He couldn’t tell her. He didn’t even know himself.

Ottavia wandered over to a stool and sat down, one leg bent up in front of her. 

“Harry,” she said.

“Hmm?,” he responded. He was studying the light lines. 

“Harry, we need to talk.” Her tone got his attention. He still didn’t look at her, though. 

“Harry, mi ami?” _Do you love me?_

He frowned. Faced her fully, wanted to see what this was about. “Sí, completamenter,” he answered, carefully. _Yes, completely._

“I do not know, Harry. I’m here with you. I sleep with you. I make love to you. But you never tell me who you think about all the time.”

Harry was confused. “Who I think about?”

“Si, Harry. The person you see when you draw your portraits. When you paint. In your heart, it is only one person, this nessuno, you tell me. He is not nessuno. He is someone in your heart. If he is in your heart, how can I be there too?”

He wiped his paintbrush off and dropped it in a cup of water. Finally picked up the coffee and took a sip, black as night and sweet as love. 

Best to meet it head-on, then, he thought. It seemed Ottavia couldn’t let it go anymore, but she might understand loving more than one person. They invited other people into their bed, less frequently now, but she knew how to share love. “Ottavia, ti amo. I can’t tell you who he is. There’s room for more than one person in my heart,” he said, softly, hoping she’d understand.

She frowned. “How can you love a stranger and me?”

He sighed. “He’s not a stranger, Ottavia. I know him. Knew him.”

“An ex-lover?”

He nodded slowly, a little sad. “Something like that.”

She studied him. Stood up and put her coffee on the stool. Walked over to him, invaded his space, pressed her hands to his chest, looked up at him. 

“You are an artist, Harry. Your art, it is heartbreaking. This ex-lover of yours, he is beautiful. But you need to paint something else. You need to make room in your heart and your mind for something else.” She tapped his scar, the same as Draco. “For someone else.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Dipingi qualcun altro. Per favore.” _Paint something else. Please._

She walked out of the room, and Harry watched her leave. He loved the way she walked, on the balls of her feet, hips swinging. 

He looked back at his painting, the long limbs; twisted, abstract. But you could still see the grey eyes, pale hair—the scars. The composition was different, but it was still him. 

Ottavia was right. 

Maybe it was time to paint something else. 

Maybe he didn't want to. 

He’d come to Florence without thinking about it, but it had been what he needed. Somewhere new, the chance to learn something new. About himself. To get away from being the Saviour and the Auror. To get away from the destiny that hung over his head. That his life, even after Voldemort, had been decided by other people. 

Draco always fascinated him. Harry had wanted an excuse to see him, to confront him. Had jumped when presented with one. Hadn’t meant for it to be anything more than just satisfying his curiosity. He’d fallen in love anyway. Never stopped to think about it. 

Until he saw the—he stopped himself. He couldn’t go there just yet.

He hadn’t resolved it. 

Maybe he’d never resolved anything. 

He knew, somewhere deep inside, that Harry’s forgiveness had been Draco’s absolution. If he was honest, he liked it. He liked knowing that he somehow had saved the last part of Draco, even as he’d admired him. Harry pushed his glasses up on his forehead, rubbed his face. Crossed the room, sat in the window, lit a cigarette. Filthy habit. He loved it anyway. 

Had he done this to them? Had his need to save people propelled him to this place? Where he had to leave his life behind so he could breathe again?

He wondered if Draco had moved on. His stomach clenched at the idea that Draco could have someone else, could have a new relationship. He pictured him with someone new, tangled limbs in white sheets. He felt sick. He inhaled his cigarette. 

He loved Ottavia; he did. But this had a time limit. He couldn’t stay away from England forever. He’d have to go back. He’d sent Draco that Patronus, knew it had found him. Part of Harry hoped he’d get one back. 

He never did. 

He wasn’t surprised. 

But he’d hoped. 

He took a long drag of his cigarette, looked back at his painting. 

Wondered what else he could create.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mild homophobic slur

One Year Before

“Harry, we’re going to be late,” Draco called from in front of the fireplace.

“I can’t find the exploding snap set!,” Harry called back. Draco could hear him rummaging around upstairs, likely turning the rooms upside down. Draco sighed.

“It’s here, Harry!” Draco was staring at the set in front of him, on the mantlepiece. Where he assumed Harry had put it, hoping to avoid the exact situation they were in right now. 

Footsteps thundered down two flights of stairs, and Harry jogged into the sitting room, perfectly disheveled. 

Draco took him in, considered dragging Harry back upstairs, and making them very late. But they couldn’t miss dinner at Andromeda’s. Teddy looked forward to their visits too much. 

"You’re the best,” Harry said as he kissed Draco on the cheek and grabbed the game. 

“Yes, well,” Draco replied. “You do know you left it here, right?”

“Yeah, but you found it.” Harry grinned at him, that special smile that was only for Draco. 

“You berk,” Draco said and kissed him on the mouth, for real this time. 

“You berk,” Harry smiled as they pulled out of the kiss, and grabbed a handful of floo powder. “You go first.”

Draco stepped into the fireplace and yelled out, “Andromeda Tonks.” He whirled through the green flames and stumbled out onto the hearth in his aunt’s front room. He shook the ashes and powder out of his hair as Harry tripped out behind him, bumping him. They grabbed at each other, catching their balance, laughed. Draco cast a wordless vanishing spell on the soot and ashes all over Andy’s carpet. 

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Show off,” he whispered and nudged him. Draco shrugged in mock innocence. They were both turned on by displays of wandless magic. Draco couldn’t help but torture him a little. 

They walked into the kitchen, bumping shoulders and smiling. Draco was focused on Harry when he pulled up short, body language stiffening. Draco stopped behind Harry, confused. He followed Harry’s gaze. Saw what had changed Harry’s demeanor. 

Sitting at the kitchen table, holding a cup of tea in both hands, was his mother.

He grabbed Harry’s hand instinctively, without thinking about it. Harry shifted, moved in in front of Draco, protectively. 

Andy was at the stove stirring a pot of something, and looked up when Narcissa cleared her throat. Andy noticed them, frozen on the kitchen threshold. Had the audacity to smile at them. 

“Boys, I’m so glad you made it.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Something to drink?”

“What the fuck, Andromeda?,” Harry said, voice low. 

Andy sighed and leaned up against the island. “Watch your language, Harry.”

“Excuse me. What the _actual_ fuck, Andromeda?,” Harry asked again. Draco appreciated Harry’s commitment to thoroughly antagonizing his aunt, who, it seemed, had invited Narcissa here to torture Draco. 

Draco barely spoke to his mother anymore. Usually twice a year, once on his birthday and once on hers. Perfunctory Christmas gifts were owled. They hadn’t seen each other since she’d left the country after their trials. At first, because he couldn’t leave based on the conditions of his parole. Later, because he didn’t want to.

Narcissa insisted on making excuses for his father, encouraging Draco to forgive him, to write to him in Azkaban. Draco could never deny the force of her love for very long, so he had. It had been...as expected. Long, vitriolic screeds, listing the ways how Draco had disgraced the Malfoy name, his ancestors. How he’d neglected his duty during the war. How he was a nasty poof who didn’t belong in a pureblood family. Draco sent the letter to his mother, hopeful she would finally see that he needed to let Lucius go. 

She hadn’t understood. 

So he’d backed away from her, too. 

Some love could hurt. 

Draco inhaled for four, held, exhaled for four. He squared his shoulders, stood up straight. Squeezed Harry’s hand and moved past him. He felt Harry move behind him, over towards Andy, heard him whisper furiously, _Seriously, Andromeda, what the fuck are you playing at springing her on us?_ Draco smiled to himself. He liked it when Harry was protective. 

Draco pulled out the chair across from her and sat, crossed his legs. Pulled at the crease of his trousers. Attempted nonchalance. 

He’d lived with Aunt Bella. 

He could confront his mother. 

“Hello, Narcissa,” he said. Calm. Cool.

She was smaller than he remembered, her pale hair pulled back in a braid, her high cheekbones stood out. She fixed her blue eyes on him. 

“Hello, Draco. My love.” She gave him a small simile.

He felt himself flinch, hoped it didn’t show. 

“What can I do for you?,” he asked, cooly.

“Andromeda invited me for dinner, dear. She thought it might be nice to get together, as a family. She says that you and Harry come here often.”

“Teddy is Harry’s godson, Narcissa. And we’re in a relationship. And, before this stunt, Andy was my aunt who I used to like spending time with.” Draco shot Andromeda a look across the kitchen, and she gave him a small shrug. Harry glowered behind her, arms crossed, in full fuck-you-I’m-Harry-Potter mode. It felt like the wrong moment for Draco to observe that a pissed-off Harry was an incredibly hot Harry. He turned back to his mother. 

“But why are you here? In England.” He was going to need to be specific. 

She sighed. “I wanted to see you. Andromeda and I have been in touch. I miss you.”

“Yes, Narcissa, well. Now you’ve seen me. Is there something in particular you want?"

“Draco, I’m your mother, and I’d appreciate it if you’d address me as such. I don’t want anything other than to see you. It’s been too long.”

“You were the one who left. If you recall, I was legally prohibited from leaving the country for five years,” he sniffed.

“I know, Draco. I’m sorry I left. I didn’t know what else to do. Being here, without your father, it was too much. It was too hard.” She looked down at the table, wrung her hands a bit.

“Yes, but I was still here. You left me here. Alone.” Draco felt himself getting choked up. Dammit. He wouldn’t cry in front of her. Not after all this time. 

“Darling, I know. I know I did, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I just needed some space.” She started to reach out, seemed to think better of it. Dropped her hand back on the table.

“Nine years of space, Narcissa?,” Harry spat from across the room. He pushed off from the counter and stalked over. “You lied to Voldemort just to find out if Draco was still alive. You risked your life for him, and you saved me so I could finally kill that noseless fuck. Why the hell would you do all of that just to leave him?” Harry stood next to Draco, looming over both of them, seething. 

Draco really shouldn’t have found it so attractive.

Draco touched his arm. Harry looked down, and Draco gave him a small smile. “Harry, I’ve got this. Thank you.” Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Draco just squeezed his arm and nodded. “It’s OK. I promise.”

“Why don’t we go find Teddy, Harry. Give them some privacy,” Andy suggested. 

Harry searched Draco’s eyes, trying to find something in them. 

“It’s OK, Harry, I promise. Go get Teddy. Tell him I’ll be along shortly, and we’ll all play exploding snap.” Harry stared into his eyes, finally nodded. Stalked out of the room. Andy followed him. 

Draco turned back to his mother. “I do believe Harry asked a relevant question. I’d be quite interested in hearing the answer. Mother.”

Narcissa cleared her throat. “Yes. Well. I suppose I thought it was better for you to have a fresh start without me. I know I didn’t do enough to protect you. I did try. I would like to think you know I did. But I should have gotten us out of there. Never let Voldemort give you the Mark. Never let your father allow them in our house, with us still there. I felt like you might have a better time making your way without me. I was so guilty. I didn’t trust myself. I wanted you to try to forgive your father, but I didn’t think I could ask the same of you. For you to forgive me.”

Draco exhaled. He felt his anger drain away. He understood, in an odd way. 

It had been so long. He couldn’t hold on to the resentment anymore. Not when she was sitting in front of him, saying things that, while they hurt, Draco could empathize with. 

“Well. I suppose I did alright on my own after all.” He gave her a small smile.

Narcissa reached out, covered his hand with hers. She smiled back. 

*****

“Good one, Uncle Harry!,” Teddy yelled when Harry made a triple play, exploding several cards at once. Harry may or may not have boosted the explosion with a wordless firecracker charm. 

There was a knock on the door; Draco stuck his head in Teddy’s room.

“Hey there, boys,” he said, with a grin. 

“Draco!,” Teddy jumped up and ran into his arms. Draco engulfed him in a big hug and ruffled Teddy’s blue hair, which was rapidly changing to platinum, to match Draco. Harry’s heart caught, every time he saw his godson and boyfriend together. They were two peas in a pod. 

Harry hopped up and wrapped his arms around both of them, trapping Teddy between him and Draco. Whispered in Draco’s ear, “It went OK, then?” 

Draco pulled back and looked into Harry’s eyes. Harry could drown in those pools of grey, deep as an ocean. 

Draco nodded, gave him a small smile. “Thank you for being you,” he whispered. 

Harry kissed Draco over Teddy’s head; felt his godson start to squirm in between them. 

“Ewww, stop it, Uncle Harry. Kissing is gross.” Teddy tried to escape. 

They laughed and pulled apart. “C’mon then, bud. Let’s go get dinner,” Harry said. Teddy took off and clattered down the stairs. Harry stepped into Draco’s space, put his brown hand on Draco’s pale cheek. “Are you OK?”

Draco covered Harry’s hand in his own, brought it to his mouth, kissed his fingertips, his knuckles. Harry’s stomach fluttered, his breath hitched. Every time Draco kissed his hand, he thought of the first time, back in Asclepius.

“I’m OK. Really, Harry. It just doesn’t seem worth holding onto anymore. She’s here. She apologized. Her reasons for leaving...make a certain amount of sense, now that so much time has passed. We can have dinner. See what happens. Can you do that? We can leave if you can’t.” Draco’s eyes searched Harry’s.

Harry would have done anything to protect Draco, even from Narcissa. Harry knew Draco’s moods, his feelings; he’d do anything to make sure he was OK. Narcissa had saved Harry for Draco. But now Harry would save Draco from everyone. His fierce need to protect Draco, to make him safe, it was overwhelming. It needed air. Harry didn’t have any to give it. 

But Harry could have dinner with Narcissa. 

He could do anything for Draco. 

“I can do it for you,” Harry smiled, rubbed his thumb over Draco’s lips.

Draco pulled him into a kiss, long and slow. Slipped his tongue into Harry’s mouth, sighed into it. He pulled back and smiled. 

“I love you, Harry Potter,” Draco whispered and tugged him down the hall. 

Harry followed. 

He thought he’d follow Draco anywhere. 

Three Years After

Draco stared at the ceiling, head resting on the back of the wingback chair in his workroom at Asclepius. Tears leaked out of his eyes, and he wiped them half-heartedly as he stared at the beams that crossed the ceiling, paying particular attention to every place they met. Where they joined, touched. 

Dai had gone home. He’d known it was coming; they’d agreed that Dai couldn’t turn down the opportunity he’d received. He’d been offered the position of Lead Potioneer at a prestigious potions Academy in Santa Barbara, in the Santa Ynez mountains, where potions ingredients grew spectacularly among the pinot grapes. 

They’d talked about it, like adults. 

Dai had asked Draco to come with him. Draco couldn’t, not yet. 

But they were going to try to make it work. 

Draco had held him close this morning, taking in the lines of his nose, his neck, his back. Breathed him in. 

“We can still see each other, love,” Dai whispered. “I can come to visit on break, and you can come to Santa Barbara, do some research.” He held Draco’s face in his hands, kissed his cheeks, his forehead. 

“I know,” Draco had sighed shakily. “I know. I’m just going to miss you so much.”

“I’ll dream of you when you’re not with me,” Dai said, still kissing Draco’s face, his neck. 

“I dream of you all the time, anyway,” Draco tried to smile, caught Dai’s mouth in his, poured all the love he had for this beautiful, brilliant man into it. He tried to say everything he wanted to in this kiss. 

“I love you. So much,” Dai said when they broke apart.

“I love you. So much.” Draco kissed him again and felt his heart break apart. 

Dai had left. 

Draco was surprised at how much it hurt. 

The bell over the shop door chimed. He had a customer. He sighed and stood up, checked his appearance in the mirror above the fireplace. He was red-faced, blotchy, his eyes shiny. He cast a cosmetic charm. It helped some of the redness, but he still looked like he’d been through something. He supposed it would have to do. He pulled his glasses down, set them back on his nose. Smoothed his hair, walked to the front of the shop, and fixed the buttons on his waistcoat. It was black today to match his mood. He was finishing the top button as he walked into the front of the shop. Took a breath, put a smile on his face, and looked up. 

Got the wind knocked out of him.

Harry.

It took his brain a moment to work it out. Harry was here. In Asclepius. Messy black hair, glasses, green eyes.

Draco stilled, felt as if he moved at all, if he even breathed, he would cease to exist. It was a trick of the mind. He was sad about Dai, and he somehow conjured an image. This was his magic gone awry. It wasn’t real. 

He studied the man in front of him. He certainly looked like Harry, but he wasn’t the Harry he knew, the one he saw in his dreams. The one who appeared in his memories before he could push them away. 

This person in front of him looked like Harry, but his hair was longer, past his shoulders. He had a proper beard now, and was thinner, almost rangy. Dressed in a ripped black t-shirt and low-slung jeans that appeared to be covered in paint. Why were his clothes covered in paint? This wasn’t Harry; this was just an unkept customer that looked an awful lot like Harry. 

Then not-Harry jammed his hands in his pockets. Rocked back on his heels. _Fucker._

Draco straightened up, walked to the counter. Gripped the edge. Hoped it hid his shaking hands. He stared at Harry—and it was Harry, the absolute fucker—and waited. There was no way Draco was going to speak first. 

“Hi,” Harry said, still rocking back and forth on his heels. 

Draco raised an eyebrow. Gone for three years without a word, and all he got was _hi?_ He didn't dignify it with a response.

Harry cleared his throat. “I was hoping. I was hoping we could talk. If you have a minute. And if. If you’ll speak to me.” He looked nervous. _Good,_ Draco thought, meanly. 

He turned and walked toward the back room. Looked over his shoulder. 

“Come on, then,” Draco said. 

Harry nodded and followed. Draco walked over to his work table. He couldn’t sit by the fire with Harry. It was too friendly, too intimate. He needed to be close to his work, to feel like he was somewhat in control, even though he very much wasn’t. 

Draco walked behind the table, put it between them. Picked up a biro and started to twirl it in his hand. Saw Harry smile at the familiar habit. Made himself stop. Forced himself to make eye contact with Harry, with those familiar green eyes, the ones he’d looked into so often. He felt his heart clench. 

_Goddamit, Harry,_ he thought, why today. Of all days.

Closed his eyes. Opened them again. 

Harry was still here. 

“Draco, I—,” he started. Swallowed, took a deep breath. “Draco, I. I don’t know what I could possibly say. I’m sorry is far too inadequate. But I am, I’m sorry. I just. I just didn’t know what to do. So I left. I’m so sorry.”

Draco just stared at him. He was sorry? That’s it? He pushed his glasses up on his head, pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“What exactly do you want me to say, Potter?,” he saw Harry wince at the use of his surname. 

“You went out for fucking curry and never came home. You disappeared without a word to anyone. There were multiple fucking governments looking for you; everyone thought you were dead. And then I got one Patronus. One. A year later. And I already knew you were fine, I already knew you left, that you weren’t taken. That you weren’t dead. If you were dead, someone would have found you. So you sent one utterly pointless Patronus, a fucking _year_ later, and then now, what? You’re sorry? OK, fine. I forgive you. Now leave.”

Draco’s hands were shaking. Unthinking, he grabbed the biro and started twirling it again. 

Harry took a deep breath. Finally took his hands out of his pockets. “I saw the ring,” he said, softly.

And there it was. He gasped, put a hand to his chest. It hurt. 

Draco already had his heart broken once today. 

He didn’t think it could break again. 

It shattered. 

“Get out,” he whispered, looking down. 

He couldn't look at Harry anymore. He couldn’t take it. This was too much for one day. 

“Draco, please. I’m. I’m bollocksing this up. I am. I’m sorry. I didn’t. I didn’t leave because I didn’t want to marry you, Draco. I left because. I left because…you. You were too—,”

“You left because of me,” Draco interrupted, still rubbing his chest, unable to look at Harry. “I understand very well. Please. I can’t do this today. I need you to leave.”  


“No,” Harry said. “No, I’m sorry, Draco, I can’t. I can’t leave until you understand.”

Draco sank down onto his stool, put his head in his hands. “I don’t want to understand. I’ve already had my heart broken once today. I cannot stand this. I can’t,” he said through his fingers as he pressed them to his eyes. 

He felt the air move next to him, felt the heat of Harry’s body near his. Could smell him; he smelled different, smoke and charcoal. 

Draco tried to think of Dai. Of lime and basil, of spring. His shining treasure. _Fuck._ He was going to break down. Inhale for four, hold, exhale for four.

Draco felt a hand on his shoulder, winced, physically jerked. He stood up quickly, Harry’s hand fell from his shoulder. Draco pulled his glasses back down and walked away from Harry, to the other side of the room, his back to him.

“Draco, what happened?,” he heard Harry ask behind him. He had taken a few steps toward Draco but, blessedly, kept his distance. 

Draco snorted and shoved his hands in his trousers. He spun around to face Harry. “Well, for starters, my boyfriend went out for dinner three years ago and never came home,” he spat.

Harry frowned. “Today, Draco. What happened today?” Draco glared at him. “Before I got here,” he added quickly, holding up his hands. 

“It’s none of your business. Please. I’m begging you. For the last shred of my sanity. I need you to leave.” Draco started to choke up, his anger dissipating. Pressed his knuckles to his mouth. 

Harry studied him for a few moments. Finally, he nodded. “OK, Draco, I’ll leave. But I’ll be back tomorrow. I need you...I need to explain to you.”

Draco nodded.

He could deal with him tomorrow. Not today. Not when Dai had left today. 

Harry headed to the front of the shop. 

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t want to marry you, Draco. I left because I did,” Harry said, sadly.

And then he was gone. 

Draco stopped holding back his tears.


	10. Chapter 10

Three Years After

Harry stood outside the door of Asclepius, two coffees in his hands. It was nine o’clock on the dot. If Draco still kept the same habits, he had been at the shop since 8:30, at his worktable in the back. The shop didn’t open for customers until eleven, so Harry hoped they’d have some time to talk. If Draco would talk to him today. He hoped.

He supposed yesterday could have gone worse. But Draco hadn’t seemed like himself. Not that Harry knew who Draco was anymore. But he’d barely had any fight in him. Harry had been prepared for a strop. Yelling. Throwing hexes, even. 

He hadn’t expected the mere start of a lecture before Draco practically begged him to leave, on the verge of tears. He looked like he had been crying when he first came out of the backroom. And what had he said? He’d already had his heart broken once today? Harry felt his stomach clench again, jealousy rising like bile. Did Draco have a boyfriend? A...no. He couldn’t let himself go there. 

Harry took a deep breath and touched his hand to the door, silently hoping that the locking charms still recognized him. He felt the door click, and he smiled softly. 

Not all was lost, then. 

He pushed the door open, and the bell chimed. Draco came out of the backroom, quickly. In a navy pinstripe suit today, with a pale blue shirt. His waistcoat was unbuttoned; there were dark circles under his swollen eyes. So he’d been crying quite a lot then. Harry felt his heart clench. He wanted to take Draco’s pain away. Knew he couldn’t.

“You could have knocked, you know,” Draco said. He sounded tired, cranky. 

Harry shrugged as best he could with two large cups of coffee in his hands. “Wanted to see if I could still get in.”

Draco pursed his lips. “Yes, well. I was told to leave all wards open to you, in case you showed up hurt or dead. And then, by the time you sent your stupid stag, I’d forgotten about them.”

“Coffee?,” Harry held up one of the cups. The one with cream, no sugar. “Looks like you might need it.”

Draco rolled his eyes, “I couldn’t possibly know why.” He turned on his heels, and Harry followed him into the back room. Contempt was good. He could deal with a little contempt. 

Draco sat in one of the wingback chairs by the fire. Crossed his legs, plucked at the crease. Held his hand out and accepted the cup from Harry. Took a sip and glared at him, clearly annoyed Harry remembered how he took his coffee. Harry smiled to himself as he took a sip of his own, black and sweet. 

He could deal with an annoyed Draco, too. 

He couldn’t deal with a broken Draco. 

He desperately hoped he hadn’t broken Draco. Or that someone else hadn’t. 

“Draco, I—,” Harry started. Draco held up a hand to stop him. 

“I will let you say what you need to say, Potter.” Harry winced. He hated that Draco was calling him Potter again. “But first, before there’s any lack of clarity, I need you to know that I’m currently in a relationship. And yesterday…,” he paused, swallowed. “Yesterday, he moved. He got a job offer abroad, one he had to take, and yesterday I had to say goodbye, which was very difficult, even though we are still together. We are doing long-distance, for the time being. It was a sad day for me, and then you appeared. Which is just my fucking luck, typically. So. Now that you are aware of what my state of mind was yesterday, you may proceed.” He sat back, posh as ever, despite how exhausted he looked. 

Harry’s heart sank. He had known, deep down. He knew it was too much, too self-centered, too arrogant to expect Draco to wait for him. 

He knew he was a hypocrite. He’d had his own relationship with Ottavia. She’d known, though. She’d known better than he had, that a part of his heart, a part of himself, was still in England. Maybe most of himself. It wasn’t just Draco he’d left. 

She’d kissed him goodbye, called him tesoro. He loved her. 

He didn’t know if he’d miss her. 

Harry took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m...I’m happy you have someone.” He hoped it sounded sincere. 

Draco snorted. “Did you expect me to wait for you, Harry? For me to waste away, hoping you’d change your mind and come back? Stop everyone from worrying so much, to fix everything you broke? I’ll have you know that it took quite a long time for me to put myself back together after you left. I deserve to have someone who makes me happy.”

He had known he hurt Draco. Hearing about it stung, though. And he didn’t like the idea of someone else having Draco. His Draco. God, he was still so beautiful. But Harry could breathe around him. Didn’t feel like he was drowning, pulled into the raging blue. Took it as a good sign. 

He had done a terrible thing by leaving. 

Maybe it had been the right thing. 

And. A tiny bit of hope. Draco had called him Harry, not Potter.

“Draco, I. God, I’m so sorry. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. An apology is an acknowledgment of harm, right? And I can’t. I can’t begin to fathom the harm I’ve caused you. And Ron and Hermione, Rose. Andy and Teddy. Everyone. And I know I have so much work to do. To even try to make it up to any of you. But. I need you, I need you most of all, to know. To know why I left. As best as I can explain it.” He bounced his leg, bit his lip. 

“So you’re planning on staying then?,” Draco asked, eyes narrowed. “Have you seen anyone else?”

“Yes,” Harry breathed. “Yes. I’m staying. But I haven’t seen anyone else. I needed to see you first.”

Draco gave him a curt nod, so Harry continued. “The night I left. I got an owl. There was a note, addressed to me, but it was a mistake. It was from the jeweler. They were letting me—you—know that the ring was ready. I didn’t…I didn’t know. I thought it might be a mistake, that it was for someone else. So I wanted to go by the shop, to let them know. I suspected. I thought it might have been for me. I couldn’t help it. I needed to know. And it turned out that I was right. It was for me. But the ring. Draco. That _ring,_ ” Harry breathed out.

Draco sat up straighter. “You saw the ring?,” he asked sharply. “You received a letter that wasn’t for you, about a ring you hadn’t bought, and instead of just letting them know they made a mistake, you asked to see the bloody ring?” He was getting angry. 

Harry shifted in his seat. “In my defence, the jeweler asked me if I wanted to see it.”

Draco exhaled sharply and sat back in his chair. “Bloody fucking unprofessional…,” he muttered. 

Harry stifled a smile. He loved when Draco muttered, was happy to see it. He went on. 

“Yes, well. That ring, Draco. It was stunning. It was...it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It was thoughtful and perfect. And then. And then the jeweler told me that it was charmed to evolve with us, with our family. And it took my breath away. It broke my heart.”

“He shouldn’t have shown you the bloody thing, let alone told you it was charmed. I cannot believe the unprofessionalism…,” Draco was still grumbling.

Harry couldn’t help it. He smiled. Draco frowned back. Stopped grumbling. 

“Draco, hear me out. It was spectacular, it was thoughtful and meaningful, and I cried when I saw it. I knew how much thought went into it, and I was humbled. Grateful. I was so thankful you wanted to marry me. And I knew. I knew I’d say yes. To you. With or without that bloody amazing ring. And I just. Couldn’t.” Draco’s face fell again, and Harry rushed on. 

“Not because I didn’t want to marry you. I did. Too much, I think. You just. I don’t think you ever knew what you did to me, physically, I mean. And not just in bed,” he attempted a cheeky smile, but Draco was still frowning, so he kept going, “but all the time. I felt. I felt like I could never catch my breath around you. Like I was always on the edge of something, a precipice. Always in danger of falling. Not in love with you. I was always in love with you. Loving you was easy. But I don’t think I knew how to be myself.”

“So you… you had to leave? Without saying anything? Harry… that was. It was cruel.” Draco’s voice cracked. 

Harry’s eyes filled, and he brushed at them with the back of his hand. “I know. I know it was. I didn’t. I didn’t think. I left the jeweler’s, and I thought I was apparating back home. I looked up, and I was in Florence. And there I was, just happy I hadn’t fucking splinched myself because my destination had clearly been fucked. I was standing on the bank of the Arno, staring at the Ponte Vecchio. And… and I could finally breathe. I meant to come home. I did. But then. I didn’t,” he ended rather lamely. Draco looked so sad. He wanted to go to him, hold him. Knew he couldn’t. 

Harry inhaled. He needed to be honest. “But then I fell in love with Florence. I enrolled in art school. And things were simple, for the first time, ever. I was doing something new, somewhere new. I wasn’t Harry Potter, the Saviour. And the Italians don’t give a fuck about all that. Frankly, they give so few fucks that I never had to hide at all, and they never told anyone I was there. And I missed you. I missed all of you so much. But I also got to be...not who I was to all of you. I got to be me.” He stopped again, took another breath. 

“And I loved you, Draco, I did. I do. I never stopped. But you were. You were everything. And that felt wrong. We had this complicated history, and then I found you, and you were living your life, moving forward. You were so beautiful and competent. But it felt like. Sometimes it felt like maybe,” he took another deep breath, “like maybe you didn’t have to forgive yourself because I forgave you. That our relationship was some sort of symbol of post-war unity or something, and that I somehow was responsible for something other than just loving you.” 

He stopped, eyed Draco warily. Draco wasn’t crying or frowning or scowling or smiling. He wasn’t doing much of anything. Harry waited. Draco took a sip of coffee. Put his cup on the table between them, pushed up his glasses, and leaned over, elbows on knees, face in hands. 

He finally looked up. “Fuck me, Harry.”

“Is that an invitat—,” Harry cut himself off with a glare from Draco. “Sorry, boyfriend abroad. Apologies.”

Draco shook his head. “You always were a flirt. Fuck you, by the way.”

“Cheers,” Harry tipped his coffee at him.

Draco let out a big exhale. “I really hate to say this, but. It makes sense. It makes a lot of sense.” He leaned back in his chair again, grabbed the coffee. 

Harry waited. Draco took his time. Harry had nothing but time. 

“When you left. When you left, Harry. God, that was awful. We all thought you had been taken or were dead. But then. When we realized you weren’t. There seemed to be a consensus. Just among Hermione and Pansy, mind you, too bloody insightful for their own good. Hermione accepted that you left on your own, far too quickly. Thought it had to do with me. And Pansy, well. Pansy thought that I never forgave myself because you did it for me.” Draco’s brow furrowed.

“So. You’re not wrong. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to use you as...a sort of panacea. I just. I had wanted to be your friend, when we were eleven. And then I was your enemy. And then I couldn’t…I couldn’t hurt you, when it came down to it, during the war. I didn’t want to. I never did. A part of me, back then, a part of me wished that you would save me too. And then you did, from the fire and then again, from the Wizengamot. 

“And then you came in here, and you were curious about me. We worked well together, we finally became friends. And then you asked me on that date, that perfect first date. And it felt like…I felt like: finally. I did so many wrong things. Then I did the right things, and then there was you. And you were, oh god. It felt like everything led me to you. Like you were an ending or a...a reward even. And you liked me. You loved me. That’s what it had all been for. Fuck. It was too much. It was too much for both of us.” Draco looked down, picked at the crease of his trousers. 

“And don’t get me wrong. I missed you, after you left. And then after you sent that Patronus, I hated you. But it got me to a mind healer, finally. And she helped me see that we were both just kids making the best choices we knew how to at the time. And I learned to have compassion for teenage Draco, even though he was an arsehole. And to see that he was scared and alone, and that he did the best he could. I started to forgive him.” Draco paused, sighed. 

“And now well. Well, maybe you made the best decision you knew how to at the time. When you left, it was a shit decision, and you hurt a lot of people. But maybe you did the best you could with the information you had at the time,” he sighed again, leaned back. Closed his eyes for a moment. 

When he opened them again, Draco leveled him with an even look. 

Harry couldn’t help but stare back. 

Draco agreed with him. Draco was, wait—

“Are you forgiving me?,” Harry asked, his heart fluttered. 

Draco dropped his head on the back of the chair. “Merlin fucking _wept._ I am.”

Harry broke out into a huge smile. Draco picked up his head and glared. 

“This doesn’t mean anything else, Harry. I forgive you. You can still fuck off.”

“I know,” Harry said, still grinning. “I know.”

He sipped his coffee. 

He could still breathe. 

Four Years After

Good to his word, Harry stayed. He officially quit the Auror department. Not that they’d been keen to have him back after he’d wasted their resources for months by disappearing. He moved back into Grimmauld Place. He turned one of the sitting rooms on the first floor into a studio. He painted full-time and sold his art under a different name, mostly in Muggle galleries. He wanted people to buy his art for him, not because he was Harry Potter. 

Harry lurked around Asclepius. He brought Draco coffees and hovered, asked questions, getting underfoot, the same way he had years before. When they’d become friends. Draco tried to keep him away at first. But Harry just kept coming round.

Slowly, Draco found himself looking forward to his visits, his coffees, his questions. The same as he had, before.

Harry’s persistence hadn’t changed, but he was different. More thoughtful. Calmer. He was still an incorrigible flirt, still funny and wry. 

But he knew he’d hurt the people closest to him. 

Harry was more careful now. 

Draco hadn’t been able to keep him away, but he kept Harry at arm’s length. He was still dating Dai, even though Dai was half a world away. And Draco loved Dai. He took a month off, went to visit Dai in Santa Barbara, to do research. He operated Asclepius remotely, fulfilling only mail orders. 

Draco loved California. The brown hills, the bright sun. It was a marvel. Dai brought Draco into the vineyards, the fields, showed him new plants and herbs, new irrigation and harvesting techniques. Drove Draco to the beach in his old Jeep, the top off. The Pacific endless and grey, churning. Draco had never seen anything so significant. 

Dai bought him fish tacos and American coffee, craft beer and acai bowls. They laid in bed, wrapped up in each other again, mountain air wafting through the windows, the smell of earth and minerals, oak and dust. Dai was familiar, comforting, beautiful. Draco was happy. But every night, when he drifted off to sleep, he saw bright green eyes behind glasses, a brown hand holding a cup of coffee. A bright smile, just for him. 

Forgiving Harry was easy. Breaking up with Dai was hard. More difficult than when he’d left for California. Almost as hard as when Harry had left. 

Draco loved Dai. 

He loved Harry. 

He made a choice. 

He needed to know. To know what it would be like, with Harry. Without the weight of expectations, of fulfilled destinies. To be together as they were. Flawed. Trying their best. Loving each other, despite their bad choices. Because of them.

Harry was home. 

Draco loved him, with all that entailed.

Draco was better than happy.


	11. Epilogue

Five years after

Draco stared at the ceiling, followed the charmed Quidditch player that was flying erratically from where he laid on the woven rug.

“Draco!,” a small voice screamed as a tiny red-headed body flung itself across Draco’s chest, practically knocking the wind out of him.

“Draco! Fly me like a Superman!,” Hugo yelled from where he sprawled across Draco’s stomach. 

“OK, OK, old man. Let me up.” Draco struggled to move the toddler off him and sit up so he could get his wand out of his back pocket. He aimed it at Hugo, said “Levicorpus.” The boy rose steadily in the air, his hands out in front of him, pretending to be the Muggle superhero. Draco stood up and floated Hugo out of the bedroom, down the stairs, back to the party. It was Rose’s eighth birthday, superhero-themed. Harry had introduced them to the Muggle movies. 

Draco floated Hugo over to his father, who grabbed him. 

“Hey, there, big man! Got Draco to fly you like Superman again? He’s a big old softie, isn’t he, Hugo?” Hugo giggled and kicked out of Ron’s arms. Ron set him down, and Hugo ran into the garden. 

Rose and their cousins were playing, their aunts and uncles keeping an eye on things. Bill and Fleur were there with George, Percy and Audrey, Charlie and his boyfriend, Lamar. Ginny was up on a broom, tossing charmed balloons in the air, exploding them into showers of sparks. Her girlfriend, Rex, was helping. Neville and Luna were by the drinks table, Luna heavily pregnant. Molly and Arthur were at a picnic table, sipping on pink lemonade and vodka sours with Andromeda and Narcissa. 

Teddy was lounging on the lawn with Victoire. They were on summer holiday from Hogwarts, both teenagers now, and significantly above it all. They grew up together, hung around with the same crowd at school, so they usually retreated when faced with the younger kids—lamented that they couldn’t perform magic at home.

An arm slipped around Draco’s waist. He turned to Hermione, drew her in. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I love you, DL,” she said. He smiled at her nickname for him, his initials. They said, “I love you,” all the time, now. Now that they knew how much they could lose; their friendship, their family. 

Harry had taught them to be more careful, too. 

“Love you too, HJ.” Draco kissed the top of her head. 

“Oi, Granger, get your hands off my man,” Harry jogged up, pulled them both into a hug. 

“Wait, I want in on this,” Ron joined them, wrapped his arms around the three of them as best he could. They broke apart, smiling. Hermione and Harry’s eyes were bright, like they both were on the verge of tears. 

Draco understood. 

Relationships weren’t fragile, but they were precious.

*****

Harry was grateful. He was so grateful, every day, that his family, the family he’d created when he’d had none, had forgiven him. He knew now that those relationships were forever; they were unbreakable. 

But he took care, now that he knew how deep they went. 

He’d been grateful when Draco decided to give him, them, another chance. When Draco went to California, Harry was sure he’d lost him. He’d been sick with it, knew that it was his fault. Hoped anyway. 

When Draco came home again, heartbroken, it had been hard. Harder than Harry thought it would be.

But they could do hard things. 

And it had been worth it. 

Harry watched the chaos from the sidelines. Kids screamed and zoomed around on brooms. Draco was levitating Hugo again, the other kids shouting that they wanted a turn. 

Teddy slouched over to where Harry was standing, drinking a beer. 

“Hiya, Uncle Harry,” he said, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Hey there, bud. How’s it going?,” Harry smiled. Fought the urge to ruffle his hair. It was red and gold today. Harry thought it was odd that Ted had been sporting Gryffindor colors, but he’d been informed, with a teenaged sigh, that they were Iron Man colors, and he had done it for Rose, since it was her birthday and he was her favorite superhero. Harry thought Teddy might have also rolled his eyes while explained it. Harry chose to ignore that. 

“OK, just needed a break from Victoire for a minute. She can talk. A lot,” Teddy gave a short laugh. 

Harry laughed. “Yeah, she can.” He passed Teddy his beer bottle. “Here. Don’t let your grandmother or your aunt see.”

Teddy’s eyes lit up, and he took a long swig of beer. Immediately coughed. Harry laughed and patted him on the back. Teddy gave him a sheepish smile and took a smaller sip. 

“Want to see something?,” Harry asked. He hadn’t told anyone what he had planned for later tonight, after he and Draco were home again. He wanted to let someone in on his plans, and he couldn’t think of anyone better to confide in than his godson. 

He thought about Sirius. About how he’d told Harry he was going to ask Remus to marry him, the year they lived together at Grimmauld with the Order. He’d sent Harry a letter, excited and nervous, ink blotchy.

But then Sirius had died, and Harry had never told anyone about the letter. And Remus had married Tonks, and Harry had been happy for them, too, even as he mourned Sirius. How he’d never had his chance. But they had Teddy, and Harry was endlessly grateful, even if it still hurt sometimes.

But Teddy had grown up knowing love. Harry still felt guilty about leaving his godson. Like he’d let Remus and Tonks down. It was fading, but he felt awful about missing so much time. He owled Ted at Hogwarts once a week, now. Even if Teddy didn’t owl him back all the time. He was a teenager, Harry understood. Harry just wanted to let him know he was still here. No matter what. 

Harry pulled a small pouch out of his pocket, handed it to Teddy, took the beer back. 

Teddy looked at him, questioning. “Open it,” Harry said. 

Teddy untied the strings and turned the ring out in his hand. Held it up and looked at it. It was gold, warm as a summer sunset. It was a simple band, with words engraved on the inside. 

Not white, no charmed images. 

Something new. 

Teddy turned the ring in his fingers, the engraving out loud, _“you, my love, my choice.”_

“Uncle Harry,” he gave him a sly side-eye. “Is this what I think it is?”

Harry nodded. “Sure is.”

“You're asking Draco to marry you,” he gasped. 

“Yep. It’s still a secret, though,” Harry grinned.

“No one knows?,” Teddy asked. 

“Only you,” Harry winked. 

“Think he’ll say yes?,” Teddy smirked. Jesus Christ, teenagers were brutal.

“You know, I wasn’t half as cheeky as you when I was your age.” Harry traded the ring pouch for the beer again. 

“You were too busy saving the world to be a teenager,” Teddy needled.

Harry snorted. “Thank god that’s done with.”

“Well, now all you have to do is work up the nerve to ask Draco to marry you.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe saving the world was less scary,” Harry said, wryly.

“Don't worry, Uncle Harry. He’ll say yes.” Teddy was confident.

“Why makes you so sure?” Harry was curious. 

Teddy looked him in the eye, serious now. “I see how he looks at you.”

Harry asked softly, “How does he look at me?”

Teddy looked out at the party, where Draco was with their family, considered the scene. 

“Like everything you say is interesting to him. Like he’d never get tired of listening to you talk. Like he thinks you’re something precious. Something you need to be careful with.”

Harry felt warm, nodded. “Thanks, Ted.”

Teddy smiled at him again, polished off the beer. Harry put his arm around his godson. They surveyed the garden, the party still in full swing.

“You’ll be my best man, yeah?,” Harry asked. 

Teddy snorted. “No. But I’ll be Draco’s.”

Harry laughed and pulled Teddy closer. 

Harry had his family.

He had Draco. 

He was back where he belonged. 

He could still breathe.


End file.
